The Mind is a Fragile Thing
by darkforetold
Summary: NC-17. Dean/Castiel. After losing Cas and Bobby, everything seems to be falling apart for Dean. Sam has a mental breakdown and winds up in a mental institution. There, Dean meets an old, familiar friend; one that doesn't seem to remember who he is.
1. Chapter 1

"Is he going to be okay?"

"Your brother is going to be fine, Mr. Winchester. He's in good hands."

Before Dean could say anything else, the nurse whirled away and walked off in a hurry. Dean growled and turned, looking at the many faces in the lobby at Osawatomie State Hospital. Some of them were forlorn, deep worry lines shadowing their faces. Some frustrated. He saw nothing but questions in those faces. Questions and fear. He was no different. He too had a loved one trapped in this wretched place; a place for the mentally—

Dean clenched his jaw and didn't want to think about it. His brother wasn't sick. Sam didn't need to be here of all places. All Sam needed was a safe, comfortable place to get better; something only his big brother could provide. Not a place with goddamn wards and padded rooms. Sam wasn't like the rest of them.

Dean was trapped between sitting in the lobby with the others and standing in the middle of the hallway like an idiot. He wavered on his feet, trying to decide whether or not he'd ask the nurse more questions, demand to see his brother or just sit the fuck down. He didn't even have a chance to make that choice..

At the end of the hall—that was where he saw it; an oddly familiar figure. Not his brother, Sam, but someone else. He should have ignored the niggling in the back of his brain, but couldn't. Something was wrong. The figure disappeared past the mouth of the hallway before Dean could discern who—or what—it had been. He didn't hesitate. With sure footing, Dean marched down the hallway and turned, easily finding the meandering figure of—No. It couldn't be.

Dean made a noise in the back of his throat, a surprised note bordering on fear. The figure was tall, lean, dressed in the clean, sterile clothes of a patient. And when Dean grabbed his shoulder and whirled the patient around, he was staring right into Cas' face.

"Cas?"

His question was breathless, bordering on hysteria. Before he could ask the angel a million questions, a nurse stepped in beside him.

"Excuse me, sir. Who are you?"

Dean gave her a glare. "I'm his family."

"But—"

"Just give us a moment," Dean hissed. "Please.."

The nurse looked at Cas who, in turn, looked at her. She made sure he approved, was all right, before squeezing his shoulder and whispering, "I'll be over here if you need me."

There were so many things Dean wanted to say: I'm sorry, I miss you, I forgive you. But none of those things came out of his mouth. Instead, Dean gathered his fragile body into a hug. Tight, nearly endless. Dean should have hugged him a long time ago, should have appreciated him more than he had. Cas felt so warm in his arms, so right, like he was meant to be there all along. After several long moments, Dean pushed him out to arm's length.

"You're okay."

Cas just stared at him and didn't say anything. Before Dean knew it, he was grabbing the angel's face, pressing their mouths together. Cas made a sweet, chaste noise but didn't struggle. The kiss was deep, meaningful, said everything that they couldn't. It spoke of forgiveness and fears, desperation and love. And when they parted, Cas' blue eyes were warm and tender. Brighter and more beautiful than he had ever seen them. Dean watched Cas lick those lips before he said..

"Who are you?"


	2. Chapter 2

"I can't let you see him."

"But he's my family!" Dean growled.

"Mr. Winchester, unless you have proper identification, some proof that you're his family, I cannot permit you to see him. It's against the hospital's policy."

"But I don't having any fucking—"

"Sir! Do I have to get security?"

Dean slammed his fist onto the counter, unable to keep control of his temper. The nurse jumped back, stared at him with wide eyes, and lifted the phone. More than likely to follow through with her threat. With hands raised in surrender, Dean backed away from the nurse's station. The nurse put down the phone, thankfully, and left Dean in peace. She seemed sympathetic to his situation, but kept a careful eye on him nonetheless.

Dean turned away and stood in the middle of the hallway, unable to decide what to do next. He felt incredibly lost. Dean ran a hand over his face, stuck indecisively between the nurse's station and the lobby. He could sit down, take a load off, or waste his time demanding answers that the nurses wouldn't give him. Neither of them sounded like good ideas.

A patient, a nurse, whatever, bumped into him and broke him out of his reverie. Dean didn't even bother to look, too focused on a woman in the lobby, crying while being consoled by a doctor. That could be him, Dean thought, destroyed over the news that there was no hope for his brother. Dean quickly dismissed the negativity with the shake of his head. No. Sammy would be fine. There was no other option. Hell, even Cas would be fine too. He didn't even want to think of the other alternative.

Dean spun away from the dismal scene, away from the lost faces of parents, siblings and uncles, of nurses and doctors whispering. It was too.. suffocating here in the lobby. Dean couldn't stand it anymore. Without another thought, Dean walked down the hallway toward the cafeteria, passing even more forlorn faces. He wondered if this place was a graveyard for the sad and weary. If there had ever been any record of happy ending. Surely not all of it ended in.. tragedy.

The hallway opened up into the cafeteria; a simple large room that was as sterile as the rest of the hospital. Since it was later in the day, the cafeteria had a small population, peppered here and there with nurses and doctors, and the occasional loved one of a patient. For such a large hospital, the cafeteria was quiet. Eerily quiet.

That was his hunter instinct talking. Dean ignored it in favor of going through the line, grabbing two wrapped sandwiches from the sea of many. Honestly, he wasn't even hungry. He would have to force it down his throat just to keep him from starving to death. After all of this—Sam, Bobby, Cas—Dean didn't feel like eating at all. Ever.

"That'll be seven dollars," the cashier announced.

Dean handed over the money without question and turned away, leaving the cafeteria behind. He found himself naturally gravitating toward Sam's room without even thinking about it. Just the way it always was when it came to Sam. A natural gravitational pull, his brain set on auto-pilot. The instinct to take care of his little brother was something that would never go away. Even when they were younger, when Dean took care of Sam while Dad was away, he always had this ingrained functionality. He had always known when Sam was hungry before Sam could even talk; or when Sam was scared, or felt lost or sad. Dean had always known when Sam needed a bed time story or when Sam needed soothing after a nightmare. This time—this time was different. Dean couldn't help his little brother and he had never felt more lost in his entire life.

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat and slowly turned the door handle to Sam's room. Behind him, someone shuffled and it sounded like—

"Sir.."

Another fucking nurse.

"What?" Dean hissed, not even turning to regard her.

"Visiting hours are almost over."

"Can't I just have fifteen minutes with him?" Dean asked over a shoulder.

The nurse nodded. Without saying anything else, Dean went into Sam's room. He tried to close the door, but the nurse was quick on his heels and barged in. He tried to keep his frustrations to himself and calmed considerably when the nurse went over to Sam's side to check his vitals. Wearily, Dean settled into the chair beside Sam's bed and looked his brother over. The sight nearly shattered his heart to pieces.

There, on the bed, lay his brother, pale with eyes closed. Under normal circumstances, Dean would have been amused at how small the bed was compared to his gigantic brother. It was even less amusing when Dean saw the straps that were used to keep him secure on the bed. That alone pissed Dean off. He turned a glare on the nurse.

"Are these fucking necessary?" Dean motioned to the straps.

"Sir, he has a tendency for violence. I'm sorry." She walked to the door and stepped out, whispering, "Fifteen minutes," before closing it behind her.

"You could wake the dead.."

Dean turned to find Sam awake. He had a small smirk on his face despite how very tired he looked.

Dean couldn't even find a smile. "Hey. How are you feeling?"

"Good. Other than the devil on my shoulder, memories of Hell… Good."

Dean huffed a laugh through his nose.

"What about you? You okay?"

"Yeah. I mean, m'brother's batshit crazy. But, you know, that's nothing new."

Sam smiled. "Dick."

It was good to see Sam smile again. Real good. The type of good Dean needed right now.

"Hey. I thought you might like this.." Dean took out one of the sandwiches, looking a little lost. Sam couldn't eat when he was tied up like an animal. "But uh—yeah.."

Sam twisted his bound wrists a little bit. "Thanks. The food here's kinda shit."

"Yeah. I could, I don't know, feed it to you, just like when you were a kid. I mean, you still can't feed yourself right. Gettin' food all over you and shit."

Sam grinned. "Pretty sure I can manage, y'prick."

Dean smiled a little bit more and put the sandwich on the small table beside his bed. He still wasn't hungry for his own. Probably won't even eat it. Hell, he didn't even want a greasy burger and fries right now.

The silence between them was heavy, thick with promises and apologies that neither of them wanted to admit. Dean was the first to break the silence.

"Hey man, I'm gonna get you out of here. You just gotta stay here for a couple of days."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I know."

More silence.

"I'm not crazy, you know," Sam whispered.

Dean squeezed his shoulder in reassurance. "I know, Sammy."

The door creaked open.

"Time's up, sir."

Dean offered Sam a weak smile and squeezed his shoulder again. "Hang in there, little brother. I'm gonna get you outta here."

Sam nodded.

"Get some rest," Dean patted his chest and got up to leave. He didn't get more than a step away before—

"You too, Dean. I mean it. Just because I'm in here doesn't mean you can let yourself waste away. Don't make me kick your ass."

Dean threw a grin over his shoulder and winked. "You can't do shit when you're strapped to the bed like that."

From outside the room, Dean watched the nurse putter around Sam, doing whatever nurses do. Dean didn't take his eyes off Sam and was still there when his little brother looked up. Dean tried his best to flash him a smile, to keep up the façade that he was quickly losing. He was determined to stay here, out in the hall, until Sam couldn't see him anymore. Still, while watching Sam, smiling ever so often when he caught his brother's gaze, he could feel it. The slow unravel. Piece by piece. Every muscle in his body abandoning the fake, hopeful exterior. And when the door finally closed, when he could no longer see Sammy, that was when Dean finally fell apart.

Dean let out a gasp of air and pitched forward, catching himself on the door jam at the last second. His shoulders trembled with the bone-crushing guilt and despair and he nearly fell to his knees. Gentle hands were there in an instant, dipping just beneath his arm in support while the other gripped his shoulder. Dean looked into the face of another nurse. Young, pretty, with golden hair. Fuck. She reminded him of Mom.

"Sir! Are you okay?"

The nurse guided him gently to one of the benches and sat down with him, never once letting him go. He almost felt safe with her nearby. But it made him _ache_ for his mother. For her warm touch and her way of making everything seem like it was going to be all right.

"I.. can't.. I can't do this anymore."

Dean lowered his head in defeat, muscles bleeding with his exhaustion.

"Sir, do you need a doctor?"

"No. I don't need a fucking doctor!" Dean growled. "I need for my brother to be okay! I need my best friend to remember me! I need.."

_A miracle._

"I'm sorry. I just.. need to be alone right now."

The nurse squeezed his shoulder. "Okay. I'll be—I'll be over here if you need me."

The warmth fell away from his side and he immediately missed it. The comfort, the knowledge that he wasn't alone in this. He didn't want to face the world of his problems head on. He didn't have the strength for it. He was tired, fed up, lonely, fucking depressed. After everything with Sam, Cas, losing Bobby…

Dean couldn't keep it together. He hunched his shoulders and let the tears fall. He didn't give a fuck anymore. He wanted to give up, disappear forever. Anything to just escape. But he knew he couldn't do that. He wouldn't leave Sam alone to face his nightmares and memories of Hell. It just wasn't an option.

After a few moments of self-pity, Dean lifted his head up and wiped his eyes. A few moments was all he could spare for himself. He was raised to be better than this. As always, Dean would pick himself up off the floor.

And that was exactly what he did.

:::

Dean had refused to leave the hospital that night. He had slept in the lobby, chin-to-chest in one of the chairs. None of the nurses had bothered him all night, telling him to move or go home. Maybe they had felt sorry for him. Or maybe he was just too much of an asshole to mess with. Either way, he had been left in peace and woke up to one hell of a sore neck.

That morning, Dean had gone to check in on Sam. He hadn't been in his room and the nurse at the station had said he had been taken for a few more tests and a check-up. It would leave Dean an hour or two of free time. For what, he didn't know.

He hadn't forgotten about Cas. In fact, the angel had never left his mind. His face, how confused it had looked, was burned into Dean's memory. The fact that Cas didn't remember him pierced a hole in his heart, one that he chose to ignore in favor of worrying about Sam. Now, facing it and feeling that pain, Dean knew he couldn't just stand here with his thumb up his ass.

He had to go see Cas.

It had taken him an hour to find the angel. After going to his room, wandering around the hospital's halls, Dean finally found him outside in the hospital's garden. Cas was shadowed by his nurse while he stopped to smell the flowers. She watched his every move, taking him gently by the arm when he decided to move on to the roses. Dean didn't give a fuck about the hospital's rules. He'd burn every one of them to the ground in order to see Cas.

Dean rounded the garden path and stopped in front of them. Like a protective dog, the nurse stepped between them, holding out a hand like Dean was some sort of monster.

"Sir—"

This ignited a spark of anger.

"Look. I don't give a fuck about your rules—"

Castiel cut in. "Erica, it's okay. I feel.. comfortable with him."

Erica drew her jaw into a tight line and nodded, stepping away.

Cas motioned to the bench with a too-thin hand. Dean watched him take a seat. He was still as graceful as he had always been, ethereal and other-worldly. Cas didn't belong here. He was.. simply too beautiful for a place like this.

Dean swallowed hard and took a seat beside him, looking out into the garden. He could hear bees and feel the soft breeze on his face. In another place, another time, Dean could have felt peaceful here. The way it was now, Dean felt tense instead, insides all jumbled up and ready to explode.

They sat in silence for a long time. It felt oddly familiar, comfortable, because it was something they had done often. Before the shit hit the fan, they had spent hours at a time, sitting on the hood of the Impala and watching the stars. The peace and quiet between them was a constant, steadying thing. Like an anchor at sea. Here, it was nothing different. Except this time, it was silence because they didn't know what to say to each other. Because Cas didn't remember him.

Cas took a deep breath and Dean couldn't help but hang onto every second of it. Dean waited patiently for him to say something, but didn't dare look at him. Cas didn't' look at him either. Otherwise, he would have felt the angel's eyes burrowing into his neck like he always did when Cas stared. Stared like Dean was the only thing that had ever mattered to him.

Dean didn't have to wait long for Cas to talk.

"Who am I?" he whispered gently.

Dean bit his bottom lip. He struggled between truth and lies, telling him some fairy tale that he'd believe. But before Dean could decide—

"They call me John Doe."

"Your name is Castiel," Dean interjected quickly without thinking.

Cas tested the name on his tongue. "Castiel.."

Dean still couldn't find the courage to look at him, to admit the feelings he had for the angel. Strong feelings beyond just friendship that he desperately tried to ignore. He lost himself in what could have been and only came to when Cas broke the silence again.

"And you are…"

Dean closed his eyes. He wanted to keep his identity close to his heart just to save Cas the trouble of ever having known him. But his mouth betrayed him.

"Dean."

Castiel echoed the name, "Dean.."

Just hearing Cas say his name again ripped him apart. Even now, even though Cas didn't remember him, the angel said it in the exact same way. The tone and inflection that always made Dean weak in the knees. Cas said his name like it was the most important word in his vocabulary, heavy with mystery and ripe with conviction. With his name, Cas made it sound like he had no choice but to love him, as if he were meant to, created by God just to find him and make him whole. Dean felt heavy with it. So many emotions in one ridiculous, useless name. A name that brought only trouble to everyone and everything.

Dean exhaled harshly. The air between them was as thick as cotton and he couldn't breathe. Cas' next question stole his breath away.

"Are we in love?"

Dean broke.

"I—I can't do this.."

Dean stood up and never once looked at him. "You're better off not remembering me."

Cas would be safer if he hadn't even known Dean Winchester at all. It was something Dean would stick to, had to, just for the sake of his friend's safety.

Without another word, Dean started to walk away. Behind him, he heard Cas stand up and then—

"Dean?"

Dean stopped and hung his head low. "Yeah, Cas.."

"I'm sorry."

Dean closed his eyes tight and took a deep breath. After several seconds of convincing himself, Dean turned to look at him. Cas was stunning here in the sunlight. He looked like an angel, surrounded by the garden of Eden. Finally, after four years of knowing Dean Winchester and then forgetting him, Cas looked at peace.

"Why?" Dean's voice cracked with the question.

Cas smiled a little and shrugged. "I.. don't know. It felt like the right thing to say."

With nothing left to say, Dean nodded and turned, walking away. The last thing he heard Cas say was—

"Goodbye, Dean."

:::

Over the next several days, Sam seemed to get better and better. The nurses didn't have to keep him restrained anymore and he was up walking around, smiling and laughing. It was the miracle Dean had been looking for. That or it was the calm before the storm. The one of many storms the brothers had to face these days.

Dean watched Cas from afar. He seemed so at peace and Dean hadn't seen him smile that much in.. ever. The weight of the world had been lifted off the angel's shoulders. Dean convinced himself that this was the right thing to do; to keep the truth from him and let him start over with his life. It was the least thing Dean could do.

When the day came to take Sam home, Dean stood by the nurse's station and filled out some paperwork while Sam stood quietly nearby. Dean was happy to close this chapter in their life and get back to hunting. Get back to being brothers. Getting back into their daily routine would be the first step in putting them back together again.

Dean turned after he had signed the last bit of paperwork, glancing down the hall just out of habit. No one was there. Dean was relieved.

"Let's go to the car, get out of here. What do you say?"

Sam smiled back at him. "Yeah."

Sam walked toward the double doors and Dean stole another glance down the hall again. There, at the other end, stood Cas. His face was forlorn, like a vital piece of him was being ripped from his chest. Dean couldn't look longer than it took to realize he was making a huge mistake. He ignored the niggling in the back of his head and walked toward the hospital's entrance, leaving Cas behind. Leaving all of it behind. Just like it should be.

After he had piled Sam into the car and rolled the Buick's engine over, Dean couldn't get out of the city fast enough. He drove and drove, not once looking back, ignoring the pang of pain in his chest. Beside him, Sam had fallen asleep, snoring peacefully with his jacket between his head and the window. The only thing keeping Dean sane was the sound of the radio and the long stretch of road ahead of him. Dean concentrated on the sound of the wheels on pavement, the hard notes of AC/DC coming through the speakers. Anything to keep him from thinking about Cas and how heartbroken he had looked. Dean tried to ignore guilt rotting his bones and the crushing loneliness that promised to smother him. Most of all, he tried to ignore his sense of obligation. After all Cas had done for them. After all he had sacrificed for two idiot brothers from Lawrence, Kansas..

"Fuck it."

Dean turned the car sharply, enough for Sam to squeal in surprise. Without thinking, he cut through the shallow median and put them on the right track to head back to the hospital.

"I'm coming, Cas."


	3. Chapter 3

Pure, white energy crackled along his fingers. Her skin bubbled and peeled, melting under his touch. The smell of roasting flesh, the dying light in her eyes. The way her mouth opened in a silent scream of horror..

Castiel fell back with a cry and stared at his hands. The blinding light faded from his fingertips, leaving his skin electric, warm, energy pulsing throughout every nerve in his body. He couldn't understand what was happening to him or what he was. They were the questions that never found any answers. Answers that always seemed to elude him.

Castiel tore his eyes away from his hands and looked into the eyes of the nurse's corpse. The agony he felt in his chest crippled him and he found it hard to breathe. He had taken her life without a second thought like it was natural. Instinct and beyond his control. Something.. deadly that always seemed to ripple beneath his skin. The constant buzzing in his body, this unearthly yet excitable energy, wasn't strong enough to cancel out the sheer weight of guilt that left him lethargic. Guilt that he could never seemed to shake from his bones.

With a whimper, Castiel cradled her head in his hands and touched his forehead against hers. Tears sped down his face in hot torrents against his skin. It had been an accident. All of this.. _an accident_.

He caressed her golden hair and brushed gentle fingertips against her cheek. With a kiss to her temple, he whispered—

"Please forgive me."

The garden around him hissed and an incredible warmth blazed against his back. In the distance, he heard voices. Pain, suffering.. _burning_. They called to him. Incessant. Desperate. The voices begged him to save them and their sobs battered against his skull. They wouldn't stop. Castiel couldn't make them stop.

Castiel covered his ears with his hands and cried out, dropping his head between his knees. He could still hear them, calling to him, pleading with him. He couldn't escape. When he dared to look up, he saw the hospital blazing with its insides carved out. Half of it collapsed. Rubble all around him. Bodies.. _everywhere_.

"What have I done?"

:::

Dean couldn't even remember if he had stopped at that red light. Without thinking, he blazed through one of the stop signs just on the outskirts of town. The honk of a horn broke him out of his daze.

"Dude, slow down," Sam complained.

Dean didn't know how to explain it. He felt it. Something was incredibly wrong. He just couldn't put his finger on it. Another stop sign got the same treatment; a two-second jerk-stop before he put petal to the metal, making the car squeal.

"Dean! Come on, man."

"I got a bad feeling, Sammy. Something's wrong."

"—shit."

Dean snapped a quick glance to his brother.

All Sam did was point to the horizon. There, against the city's uneven skyline, was a thick billow of smoke. A cop car whizzed by them on the road, followed by an ambulance. Whatever was causing all this commotion, Dean could feel it all around them. The thick buzzing in the air, the thrill of danger, the song of sirens. All of it turned Dean's gut into a soup of dread, kicking around his nervousness with a vengeance. Dean prayed that all this shit—the smoke, the sound of the fire trucks—wasn't coming from the hospital. Obviously, God wasn't listening.

As Dean drove closer to the hospital, skipping stop signs and blazing through a slow intersection, all he could see was fire. Angry reds and oranges licked the night sky, creating its own sunset of devastation and anguish. Dean's insides were twisted and he could barely breathe. All he could think about was Cas. All he could _see_ was Cas, broken and twisted in his mind. Dead. _Again_.

Dean choked back his pre-emptive sense of loss and swallowed down the thickness of his worry. No. Cas would be fine. He knew it. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Dean knew Cas would be all right. Safe. He had to believe that for his own sanity's sake. Dean couldn't lose him. Not again. He couldn't handle that.

The Buick jerked to a stop a short distance away from the hospital. Even here, safe in the car, Dean could almost feel the heat on his face. Dean didn't even take a breath before whipping the door open, spilling out into chaos. Cops and firemen, patients and doctors littered the street. Some of them had ash all over their faces, some of them burned. Dean felt nauseous. Behind him, Sam called out to him, but he didn't care. He was running as fast as he could toward the burning building. The only thing he could think about was finding Cas, clawing through the rubble and dodging the flames just to find his friend. To know that he was okay.

Dean flew by someone in uniform, a man who tried to stop him from getting closer. Even in the dull haze, he could hear Sam behind him, mentioning something about the FBI. He didn't care to hear the rest of it.

Ahead of him, the building groaned and another chunk of the roof slipped free, crashing below. There were screams of surprise, a scattering of people. Someone knocked into Dean's shoulder as he raced by, setting him off course. He stumbled two steps and quickly regained his balance. Dean had skinned his knee and the slight pain raced up and down his leg, but it didn't distract him from his mission. He had a full mind to enter the building itself, to find Cas and rescue him. But.. something didn't feel right. Something—his gut instinct, his conscious—told him that Cas wasn't in the building. That Dean would find him where he always seemed to be.

The garden.

Dean headed toward it. Just like everything else, the canopies of trees and once-lush plants were on fire, raining down ash and fire-fly sparks. The flutter of fire-lined leaves would have been ethereal, beautiful even, had this not been a gruesome scene. Bodies peppered the charred ground, their faces warped in horror. And in the middle of it all knelt Cas, hunched over with his hands over his ears. He was the only thing untouched, white scrubs still pure despite the carnage all around him.

Dean didn't even hesitate. He ran toward him and plopped down on his knees beside him. Cas didn't even react, hands still over his ears, whispering something Dean couldn't hear. As gently as he could, Dean peeled Cas' hands away from his head.

"Cas.."

"What have I done? What have I done?"

Cas kept mumbling and tried to pull away, but Dean wouldn't let him. Cas seemed lost inside his own head, shocked with grief. Tears were in his eyes, his face contorted in agony. It wasn't pain from anything physical, Dean quickly learned. He had no cuts or bruises on his body as far as he could tell. It was a mental anguish, crushing guilt. Dean knew the signs of guilt like the back of his own hand.

Suddenly, Cas jerked his body, struggling as if he were trying to get away. Dean hugged him close, whispering in his ear. "Cas, it's me! Dean. Come on, buddy. You're safe. I got you."

"Dean..?"

Dean looked down into those wide, blue eyes. "Yeah, it's me."

"You came back?"

"Yeah, o'course. I wasn't going to leave you."

Right then, Cas melted into him and buried his face into his chest. Dean exhaled hard and pulled him in tighter. Thank God, he was safe. He felt incredibly relieved, but it was short-lived. Around them was a circle of bodies. Patients, nurses, doctors. For a second, Dean feared that Cas had gone on a wild killing spree, fueled by psychosis or something worse. Then he smelled it. Sulfur, thick and rank, filling his nostrils and almost making him gag. These.. people had been demons before Cas had burned them out, leaving smoking hulks behind. It didn't make sense that demons had been behind all of this, targeting a mental hospital filled with people who were.. worse for wear. Easy vessels? Maybe they had been looking for Sam or—

"I can hear them, Dean. They're in pain. So much pain."

Dean swallowed hard.

"I have to help—"

Dean didn't have a chance to stop him. With a burst of strength, Cas jumped up out of his arms and ran… toward the building. Dean's heart punched against his chest and he struggled to get to his feet.

"Cas!"

But he was gone. Just like that.

"Shit!"

Without hesitation, Dean started in after him. Sam's voice called out to him and he stopped, whipping around to see him run up. Dean didn't even let his brother breathe before he said—

"Cas just went in there. I'm going after him."

Sam nodded and turned, taking a step toward the building himself. With a flash of his hand, Dean jerked him back. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm going in with you—"

Dean glared at him. "The fuck you are. No. You're staying right here."

"I'm _not_ gonna to let you go in alone. No way."

"Sam, I'm not fucking around here. You _can't_ go in there. I mean it, man."

Sam wasn't listening. With all his sasquatch strength, he jerked away and ran off.

"Fuck!"

Dean growled and headed in after him, quick on his brother's heels. The heat of the flames and the sting of thick smoke rose up to greet them. Dean felt like his lungs were in a vice-like grip, squeezed until he had no choice but to let out a ragged cough. It shook his whole body and left him weak. Goddamnit. He had to try and keep the smoke out of his lungs as best he could. Quickly, Dean shrugged out of one of his shirts and held it over his nose and mouth. Sam quickly followed suit, doing the same, before they both headed off down one of the main hallways. Here, the fire leapt out at them, trying to claw and grab with scorching heat. The smell of burning flesh, the screams of agony from those still stuck in the building..

Dean's chest constricted with anxiety. All he could think about was Hell; the flames, the screaming. It ate at his conscious and left him weak in the knees. Dean expected to see Alistair around every corner with his haunted smile and black, cadaverous eyes. But he wasn't there, hiding in the shadows, waiting for Dean to carve into the next soul on the rack. It was just Sam, his pain in the ass little brother. Dean took solace in that. He wasn't in some.. fucked up nightmare or there, back in Hell. He was here; on the surface, on another job with Sam.

Just as soon as Dean regained his mental stability, Sam waffled on his feet. His little brother pitched forward and caught himself last minute on the doorjamb. Dean was there in a second, by his side when Sam called out in pain. Whimpering, Sam held his head in his hands.

"Whoa, whoa. Sammy, you okay?"

Dean put a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder. Sam took an adverse reaction to that, thrashing as if a demon had dug into his flesh. The memories of Hell were happening to him too, Dean thought. He rushed forward quickly and grabbed Sam's face, jostling him just so that his brother could concentrate on something else. Not Hell. Not flames. Just him.

"Sammy, Sammy!"

Sam growled. The sound died down into another painful groan, his eyes pinched tight.

"Come on, Sam! Look at me!"

Reluctantly, as if he were scared, Sam peeled open his eyes slowly. Dean tried to give him a proud smile as if to let him know he wasn't alone.

"It's me. Your big, awesome brother Dean. Okay? You're not in Hell, dude. You're not back there. Okay? Come on. Look at me."

Sam blinked several times, nodding slowly, jerked motions that were more forced than anything.

"I need you to keep it together. Keep it to-fuckin'-gether. Come on, dude. I need you stay with me."

Sam nodded again, more confidently and spared a tiny smile. "Yeah."

"You good?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Let's find Cas and get the fuck outta here."

Together, with shirts reapplied to their faces, they started moving down the hallway. Again, something in him, something like a sixth sense, guided him in a specific direction. He wasn't about to question why or how, or even try to explain it. Maybe it was some profound bond bullshit Cas had mentioned a while ago. Maybe they were linked. Dean didn't care. It had worked before and Dean didn't have anything else to go on. They needed to get out of here as fast.

They came to a hole in the floor, black and deep, yet easy to jump over. It reminded Dean of a monster's maw, jagged and broken floor tiles like teeth ready to cut them to pieces. Dean looked back at Sam and nodded, shouting out for Cas before sailing over it in one leap. The fragile flooring on the other side groaned and dipped down an inch, making Dean yelp out in surprise. He stumbled, catching himself on a discarded gurney, before righting himself and turning to look at Sam. Except.. Sam wasn't looking at him. Instead, his brother stared down another hallway, face glazed over like he had been hypnotized.

"Sam!"

Sam didn't listen. Without a word, without looking at his brother, Sam walked off and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway.

"Sam!"

Dean yelled until his lungs hurt, nearly frantic. He couldn't lose him here, not in this goddamn place. With how everything was falling apart around them, with how delicate Sam seemed to be, losing his brother here was not a fucking option. Dean stepped back once, twice, and readied himself to jump back over and chase after his brother. Another voice made him stop.

"Dean!"

It was Cas and he sounded close.

Dean teetered unsteadily between his choices; go find Cas because he was nearby or take his chances and go find Sam. The guilt of both choices mounted inside his head. His heart told him to go find Sam, but the logical streak in him demanded that he get Cas because he sounded closer.

"Dean!" Cas' voice again.

"Sam!" Dean screamed out, choking back another ragged cough. No answer.

"Fuck," Dean hissed, feet stuttering a few steps. Angry, he pounded his fist against the wall. "Fuck!"

He couldn't waste any more time. With a growl, Dean turned away from the hole, away from Sam, and charged toward Cas' voice. The crushing guilt almost stole his breath away, filling his lungs with the quiet burn of rage.

"Cas!"

The name was a hiss of vehemence. Somewhere in the distance, in one of the rooms off the hallway, Cas called back. Dean followed the call like sonar, rounded the hall and ducked into one of the side rooms. There, in the corner, huddled Cas.

Without hesitation, Dean headed toward him, his anger pounding out a hurried tempo against the floor. Cas looked up at him and whispered his name in the same way he always did; with more emotion and love than an angel had the right to feel. Dean grabbed his arm tightly and yanked him up. Cas yelped in pain and stumbled to his feet. The angel struggled against him when Dean tried to lead him back into the hall. It just pissed off Dean more until—

"Dean! The child!"

Dean looked back to see Cas pointing at the small, slumped form. It wasn't moving, covered in a thick blanket and laying prone. With a soft exhale, Dean let Cas go and went for the kid. The child was a little girl with sandy blonde hair, green eyes and freckles. He stooped low, covered her face with his shirt, and picked her up to hold her close.

"Let's get the fuck out of here."

Cas nodded and turned, leading the way into the hall. It didn't take more than one or two steps before he stopped dead, staring ahead. When Dean rounded the corner, he saw why.

"Well, hello, boys. Fancy meeting you here."

In the dim haunted light, a woman with brown hair, eyes and bright lips stood, smiling like the cat that had caught the canary. Dean knew that smirk, that face, anywhere. Of all the shit—

"Hello, Deano," Meg crooned. She looked at Cas hungrily, raking her eyes all over him. "Clarence.."

Instinctively, Cas took a step back.

"I should have known your stink was all over this shit."

"Now, is that the way to greet an old friend? Come now. Show a little respect."

"Fuck you," Dean hissed.

Meg licked her lips, smile slowly crawling onto her face. "You'd like that, wouldn't you. Sorry, Deano. You're not my type." The demon slid her eyes to Cas. "Your boyfriend on the other hand.."

Dean's boiling anger made him tremble. "You lay a finger on him and I swear to God, I will break every bone in your body."

That fucking smile again. "How kinky. I didn't know you cared." Meg laughed lightly. "Don't worry, darling. I'm not here to break him. Just.. use him a little. I promise to return him.. in how many pieces, I don't know."

Dean clenched his jaw when she advanced forward, swaying her hips.

"Here, kitty, kitty."

Dean kept his eyes on Meg. "Cas.. listen to me."

Cas took another step back from her.

"That thing you did before, with those people and the light—"

Cas trembled like he was afraid.

"I need you to whip out that mojo—"

"I don't know how—"

"Cas! Just listen to me. It's inside you. Find it, whatever you gotta do—"

Meg was too fucking close.

"I don't—"

"Just trust me! Do it!"

Cas lifted his hand and whipped his head away. Dean bent his head low, covering his eyes and the child's face before blinding white light could burn out his retinas. He heard Meg scream in agony, the sound of a body hitting the floor. When the light faded, when Dean opened his eyes, he saw a trail of black smoke slither its way up into the ceiling and disappear. Cas was bewildered, looking at his hands with wide eyes. The angel turned to Dean for explanation.

"What—what am I..?"

"No time for that, Cas. We need to get out of here."

Urgency quickened their steps. With team work and tricky maneuvering, Dean and Cas were able to get the little girl across the devastated flooring. The heat was suffocating, the fire nipping at their skin. Soon, it all fell away in favor of the open sky and cleaner fresh air. Firemen were there immediately to take the child from Dean's arms, throwing a blanket over his shoulders. Several nurses—not demons as far as Dean could tell—stared at him.

"You're a hero," one of them whispered to him.

"Fuck that."

Dean shook his head, nearly insulted. Heroes didn't torture souls in Hell. Heroes didn't let down everyone around them. He wasn't a hero. Not at all.

While a paramedic came to his side, tried to tend to him, Dean growled and shrugged away. His eyes searched the crowd for his brother, the only person he cared to see. But he didn't see him. Dean panicked.

"I'm going to go look for Sam," Dean said to Cas quickly. He didn't even wait for an answer before turning toward the building again. He didn't give a fuck that he felt like collapsing or that his lungs burned every time he took a breath. He'd willingly die if he had to, just to find Sam. But he didn't have to go back into the inferno, into his memories of Hell. Ahead of him, Sam came out of the building carrying a fragile woman in his arms. Sam.. he was fucking hero. Dean swallowed down his relief and pride, watching Sam pass off the patient to one of the paramedics. Dean met him half-way.

"You okay, Sammy?"

Sam looked at him and nodded. "Yeah."

"Good because the next time you run off like that, I'm gonna break your fucking kneecaps. You get me?"

Sam tightened his jaw and looked away.

Dean grabbed him by the shoulder, drawing Sam's eyes back. "I mean it, man. Don't scare me like that. It's bad enough I have fucking Cas to deal with."

Right then, Sam looked past him. Dean turned to find Cas staring at him. His face didn't reflect his hurt, but those blue eyes seemed to drown in it. Dean didn't apologize. Instead, he turned away and headed for the car. In was a short, heated walk to the Buick, fueled with anger that Dean had difficulty getting a handle on. He threw the blanket aside and threw open the car door before slipping inside. Two car doors closed, indicating that Sam and Cas had gotten inside; his brother in the passenger seat and the angel in the back. No one spoke.

Everything was quiet. Too quiet. Dean sat there, staring at the steering wheel. He could still feel the heat on his face, the screaming in his head. He shivered in the dark, trying to get rid of those haunting memories of Hell. All of this.. had been too close for comfort. The carelessness, the unnecessary risks.

Dean put his hands on the wheel and gripped it tight. That anger was his passenger, stuck on his shoulder with no hopes of getting rid of it. It boiled under his skin, seared his veins. Dean could only think about how Cas had almost got them killed again. He should have let it go. Dean should have shrugged it off. But this wasn't the first time the angel had been incredibly stupid. Purgatory, the fucking souls.. Dean exhaled a hard breath and turned to look at Cas. In the back seat, the angel stared out the window, slowly turning to stare at him. Dean could see the regret in his face, the apology that was already forming on his lips. Cas looked as if Dean had kicked him or scolded him for peeing on the carpet. And that was without Dean having said anything at all.

Dean didn't fucking care if Cas felt terrible or knew that he had done wrong. He wanted Cas to know that this type of heroic, stupid bullshit wasn't okay. "What the fuck were you thinking back there, Cas?"

Cas didn't say anything. He did the opposite. Like a bratty teenager, Cas looked out the window and tightened his jaw.

That was fucking it.

Dean lunged back and grabbed him by the arm. His fingers were tight against his flesh, blunt nails digging into the underside of his arm. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

When Cas finally did, Dean could see his blue eyes and how they glistened with whatever he was feeling. Hurt. Crushed because Dean was disappointed in him. Maybe even a little bit of fear.

Dean didn't stop. "You almost got us killed back there!"

"Dean, I'm—"

"No. _No_. You don't get to talk. You don't get to apologize. Nothin'."

Cas closed his mouth.

"I swear to God, if you do something like that again, I'm gonna let you burn. I'm gonna let you burn, Cas, and do nothin' about it. That was careless and stupid. I don't do careless and stupid anymore!"

"Dean, come on, man," Sam whispered.

Cas never once looked away. His face did all the talking. The delicate lines twisted into a painful grimace and his voice was so small, so quiet that Dean almost didn't hear him. "You're hurting me."

Dean looked at his hand and jerked it away. His grip had left a red mark around Cas' arm, fingernails undoubtedly bruising his skin and leaving bloody little crescents. Despite all the anger, Dean felt guilty. He dropped his eyes and licked his lips. He wanted to apologize but thought better of it, turning away and starting up the engine instead. Cas had to learn his lesson. Immediately apologizing after the fact wouldn't do anyone any good.

Dean stepped on the gas and put as much distance between them and the hospital as quickly as he could. The city streets stretched into miles of highway, bleeding into hours on end. The sound of soft rock kept him company while Sam slept. Somewhere between Hastings, Nebraska and Bridgeport, Dean stole a glance at Cas. The angel was sleeping in the back seat, Dean's jacket between his face and the window. No matter how angry he had been at Cas, no matter how careless the angel had been, Dean couldn't deny that he cared about the son of a bitch. Enough to keep him neck-deep in trouble.

For hours, it was just he and the road. Dean tried to keep his singing to a hushed murmur and took a peek each time either of them fidgeted in their sleep. After a heart-filled yet quiet rendition of Sweet Child o' Mine by Guns N' Roses, Sam stirred and finally woke up.

He rubbed at his eyes. "Dude, are you singing?"

Dean scoffed and said, "No," while simultaneously clicking off the radio.

Sam smirked. "Where are we?"

"Just passed Casper."

"The ghost?"

"Wyoming, smart ass."

Dean flashed him half a grin. Sam smiled small in return before twisting in his seat to glance back at Cas. His little brother said nothing, turning back to look out his own window. Neither of them said anything. Dean kept his eyes mostly on the road, snatching quick glances at Sam when he could. Right then, he wondered what Sam thought about all this. Dean hadn't, for one second, forgotten what Cas had done to him. He was still fucking angry at him for that. Rightfully so.

"Hey."

Sam turned to look at him.

"You gonna be okay with this?" Dean tilted his head back to indicate Cas.

As if to make sure they were talking about the same person, Sam looked back at him. His eyes found his brother again. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

"And if I'm not? You gonna dump him on the side of the road?"

Dean flinched like he had been hit.

"Look, Dean, I'm fine. Don't worry about it."

Dean tried to study his face, to read the riddle written there. He honestly couldn't tell if his brother was okay with Cas being here or if he was trying to hide how much he hated the angel. Sam looked away before Dean could get any answers.

The long, winding highway set his frayed nerves at ease. Only the hum of the Buick's engine disturbed the silence. It was an irritating noise that reminded him that this piece of shit car wasn't his, wasn't his baby. God, he missed her. The sleek black curves, the purr of her engine. He could listen to her all night given the chance again. The longing for his baby made him hate this pile of junk even more.

"Ran into an old friend," Dean said just to keep his mind off his car. The thought of her collecting dust.

Sam looked at him quizzically.

"Meg."

"Fuck," Sam hissed.

"Yeah," Dean smirked. "She wanted Cas.. well—wanted him, wanted him. Said something about using him. For what, I don't know."

"Can't catch a break."

Dean silently agreed. "Thought we'd lay low for a while. Go up to the cabin. Rest up and then figure all this shit out. We could all use some R and R."

"Yeah," Sam whispered before looking out the window again.

Quiet moments like these between the brothers were getting increasingly rare. Dean wanted to ask how Sam was doing, how he was feeling, but didn't want to impose. He didn't want to be _that_ big brother, the one who didn't let the younger one breathe. Dean didn't want to mother him. Instead, he'd let Sam figure out his own shit. Dean would step in when things got tough, just like usual. But to see Sam hurt like this, to struggle being in his own skin.. it ripped him apart like nothing else could.

Dean swallowed back the urge to tell Sam that he loved him, that he'd be there if he needed anything. He wasn't about to grow lady parts, as Bobby often said, and start talking about feelings. No chick flick moments for the Winchesters. Dean opted for silence and just gave the back of Sam's head a hidden, appreciative smile.

The next day, they stop for lunch at an old diner. Dean spent most of the time biting back a grin each time Cas bit into his burger. Cas looked so goddamn happy eating it. He had to stop the angel from ordering another one, threatening that, if he got sick in the car, he'd throw him out of it.

Sam took over the driving once they got back on the road. The blurry line of trees outside the window acted like a lullaby. It hadn't taken long for Dean to pass the fuck out, drowning in a sea of distorted images. Some of them were of Hell; red and oranges, heat upon heat. He vaguely remembered a flash of Sam burning, calling out to him, screaming for help. Those terrible, frightening images had faded, replaced by a smiling Cas, eating burgers. They were in a park together, a green field surrounding them. That part of the dream had been peaceful. It warmed his heart, a feeling that lasted when Dean finally woke up to—Someone shaking him.

"Dean."

Dean jerked awake, tossing his head to look wide-eyed at his brother. Sam looked calm and wasn't in danger. It made Dean relax immediately.

"We're here."

Dean frowned and looked outside the window. The small cabin, Rufus' cabin, greeted him quietly, swathed in darkness. The starry sky stretched above him, accompanied by a sliver of the moon.

"What the fuck? I passed out for eight hours?"

Sam half-shrugged, half-nodded. "About six and a half." He grinned. "Not all of us drive like old women."

Dean snorted and opened the car door, stepping out into the clean air. His lungs appreciated the change from the stuffy car, the lingering hints of smoke. To the side of him, another door opened and closed. Dean could feel Cas slide up next to him, brushing arm-to-arm. It set Dean's teeth in a tight line. Too fucking close. As if Cas could feel his irritation, the angel stepped away from him, toward the cabin, and didn't look back. Not at him at least, but to Sam.

"Why don't you go inside, Cas?" Sam offered softly.

Dean watched him nod and then drop his eyes back, as if he were trying to sneak a quick peek at him. Saying nothing, he did as he was told and walked up the stairs and into the cabin.

Dean turned, moving to the trunk of the car. There was something he had to do. He popped the trunk and rummaged around, stopping when his eyes hit something tan and familiar. The trench coat. Gently, Dean brushed his fingers over it, savoring the feel of worn material. He fully planned to give the coat back to its rightful owner.. just not yet.

Forgetting it, Dean moved on, digging deep beneath the duffel bags of supplies. Cold metal danced along his skin when his palm slid over the sleek handle. By the time Dean had pulled out the angel-killing blade, Sam had poked his head around the side.

"What are you doing?"

Dean held it up for him to see. The moonlight caught it and shimmered down the blade.

"Uhh—"

"Look, Sam. We gotta make sure it's him."

"Dude. I thought you said you saw—"

"Forget what I saw, okay?" Dean stepped close to his brother. "We _always_ make sure."

Dean left Sam behind with his confusion and headed into the cabin. Cas was still standing two steps into the main room as if he didn't dare move anywhere else without direction. He stood still, quiet, and didn't even turn around to look at Dean.

"Cas," Dean began sternly. "Give me your hand."

Cas turned slowly to look at him. His face was unreadable, but his eyes.. they were filled with a sadness that Dean couldn't place. A part of him wanted to reach out to the angel, hold him until he felt happy. The other part.. still wanted to punish him for everything that he had done to them. The latter part won out.

Without question, without hesitation, Cas held out his hand. He was so trusting, so unfailingly obedient that it made Dean ache inside. Dean swallowed it down and roughly took his hand, sliding the blade against his forearm. Hard. Too hard. Way too fucking hard. His own viciousness shocked him. And Cas bled, oh how he bled. The blood ran freely down his arm, splattering against the wooden floorboards. Quiet blue light pulsed beneath red, indicating that Cas was still _Cas_; an angel, his friend. Half an angel, Dean corrected. The light, his Grace, was too dull to be full-on. Somewhere along the way, Cas had lost some of his angel mojo.

When Dean finally looked away from the wound to Cas' face, his heart literally fell to his gut. Cas had never uttered a cry of pain, not even a whimper. But his face.. _God._ The angel just stared at him with a slight frown, more hurt than angry, while a single tear fell down his cheek. Cas didn't even make a move to stop the bleeding, letting the blood fall freely in a way that said; _look what you did._ Except with none of the vehemence behind it. Dean felt.. so fucking guilty. He wanted to drop the blade, get on his knees and beg for forgiveness. But Sam's sudden presence behind him threw everything off.

"_Jesus_, Dean."

Sam pushed past him and rushed to Cas' side, grabbing the arm and pulling. Cas stared at Dean as long as he could while Sam dragged him over to the small kitchen sink. Dean was the first to break the stare, moving off in the opposite direction, toward the back door. His guilt was the only thing that followed him into the cold night air, hanging over him like a death shroud. Even under the open sky, he felt as if he were suffocating, dying under the weight of all these fucking emotions. They hurt, every single one of them, and he couldn't escape. Not even for a second.

Dean reached into his jacket and pulled out Bobby's flask, putting it to his lips and taking a long, long drink. The alcohol buzzed in his throat and burned all the way down. It helped take some of the edge off, but did nothing to bury everything he was feeling. Not even close. The confusion continued to whittle his brain, the hurt rotting his bones. No matter how hard he tried, Dean couldn't forget the things Cas had done. Betraying them, taking down Sam's wall.

Dean took another long drink and walked down the back steps. There was only one thing that had always given him some sort of solace in the shit storm of his life. Now, in the thin sheet of snow, she was hidden under a tarp, protected from the elements. Dean grabbed a corner of the tarp and lifted it up and over her front end, revealing the black curves of the Impala. She felt cold to the touch, but that didn't matter. She was here.

"Hey, baby. Y'miss me?"

He ran a calloused hand over her again while the other encouraged his alcoholism. More burning, a little more oblivious to his pathetic life. Dean didn't have a whole lot of time to himself. Soon, Sam was exploding through the back door, trudging through the shallow snow to stand heatedly behind him.

"What the fuck is your deal, man?"

Dean clenched his jaw and said nothing. Instead, he occupied his lips with the flask and took another hard drink.

Sam grabbed his shoulder hard and whipped him around. "I said—"

Dean used the momentum to hit his arm away. "What's my deal? You want to know what my deal is. I'll tell you my deal." Alcohol had a way of loosening his lips. "It's fucking Cas, man. I don't know whether to.. be happy he's alive. Or.. kill 'im for all the shit he pulled!"

"Dean, he doesn't remember—"

"Yeah? Well that don't get him a clean slate," Dean said, a bit calmer. He took another drink.

Sam stared at him, bewildered. "Listen to you."

Dean said nothing, licking his lips.

Sam crossed his huge arms over his chest. "This is Cas here. Our friend. Don't you remember? What happened to the brother that stood up for him? That had a hard time believing he was in league with Crowley?"

"I got burned, Sam. I'm not getting burned again."

"A couple of days ago, you didn't even think he was alive. You were _sick_ with _grief_, Dean. And now you want to forget all that and go back to not trusting him? Being angry about what he did?"

Dean clenched his jaw.

"Sometimes I don't get you, man," Sam shook his head and huffed out a breath.

A few seconds of silence and then—

"Look, Dean. You and I.. we've done some fucked up shit, okay. And so has Cas. I'm not discounting that. What I'm saying is.. none of us are perfect. I mean, we wouldn't even be here if it hadn't been for Cas."

"If he'd got you outta Hell right—"

"Dude, accidents happen. Getting me outta Hell right? That's not even the point—"

"Yeah, well. Him lying to us, working with Crowley—your wall. That is."

"Dean. Remember when I started the Apocalypse? When you said 'yes' to Alastair?"

Dean flinched.

"Yeah. Fucked up shit," Sam shrugged. "You know, do what you gotta do, but I'm not gonna hold anything against him."

Dean stared at him.

"Yeah, sure, I'm still angry. Every time I see.. his face, I'm reminded what Cas did, but." Sam shrugged again. "I don't know, man. A part of me thinks that this would've happened anyway. Sooner or later, the wall would've come down. Cas just helped it along."

"Doesn't excuse what he did."

"Yeah. Well, he deserves a second chance. You know that."

Dean looked at the ground.

"If you're worried about me, what I think about all this.. I'm okay. I really am. I forgive him, Dean. You should too. Don't be mad at him for my sake."

Dean didn't say anything. What was there to say? He couldn't just flip a switch and forgive Cas for everything, for hurting his baby brother. It would take time. A lot of fucking time.

They were quiet for a long time. Dean took another drink while Sam stared at the stars. Sam was the first to break the silence.

"What are we gonna tell him?"

"Nothing," Dean snapped.

"Dean—"

"No, look. We tell him nothing, all right? Not what he is, where he's from. Nothing."

"Dean, he has a right to know," Sam reasoned.

"He gave up that right a long time ago."

"That's unfair."

Dean glared at him. "What are we gonna say, Sam? 'Oh hey, by the way, you're an angel. Thanks for melting my brother's brain. You're a real pal!'?"

Sam couldn't open his mouth to reply before—

"There's a whole lotta other shit to consider, okay? Right now, he doesn't have to worry about anything. He's at peace. He doesn't remember what those souls did to him. He doesn't long for a home he'll never have again and he sure as hell doesn't remember how fucking painful it is to be human. He's oblivious to all the shit he's been through and I'd like to keep it that way."

"Fuck. I'd forget half the shit we've been through if I could," Dean muttered.

"Yeah," Sam whispered quietly. "I'm.. gonna go inside. Fucking freezing out here." A moment of quiet. "You gonna stay out here?"

"Yeah. Clear my head a little."

"Okay."

Sam left him alone. Dean could hear him stomp up the steps and go inside the cabin, shutting the door behind him. It was only him and the Impala, his baby, and a whole lot of thoughts. So Sam had forgiven him or so he said. It gave Dean a lot of think about. Maybe now he was more willing to give him a chance, knowing that Sam was fine with it; with Cas being around, things getting back to normal. For the first time, ever since Cas had died, Dean felt a little more hopeful. Like he was finally allowed to forgive and move on toward forgetting.

It must have been an hour since Sam had left him out here. Dean only snapped out of his thoughts, doubts and hopes when he heard the back door open and close again. This person was quieter, less confident in his approach. Dean didn't need to look in order to know it was Cas. The angel stood there silently. Dean could tell out of his peripheral that Cas was staring at the sky. He seemed perfectly content to just stand there, saying nothing. And even though he was an angel, Dean was concerned that Cas would freeze to death out here in just—

Dean looked at him a little more closely. Cas was wearing his favorite faded AC/DC t-shirt and worn pajama pants. They fit quite well, snug to his body, hinting at the well-toned muscle that lay underneath. Dean couldn't help but let his eyes wander down the length of him, memorizing every detail.

Dean looked away. Without saying a word, he outstretched the flask in a sort of peace offering. Cas took it gently. Dean didn't watch him, but could hear the swish of the liquid. The angel sputtered and coughed, handing it back to him at the same time. Dean smirked and tried to bite back an amused grin.

They still didn't say anything and Dean was perfectly fine with that. When Dean finally turned to look at him again, Cas was staring at the Impala. There was a thoughtful expression on his face and a small smile. He stepped forward and placed both hands on her hood, running a hand along the black surface. Dean watched his smile grow, deep and genuine, as if the world had revealed all of its secrets to him.

"This is familiar," Cas whispered. When he looked at Dean, his smile was warm. "You like this."

Dean quickly looked away and swallowed the hard lump in this throat. _Goddamnit Cas_, he thought, taking another drink. He blinked back something in his eye—something i_wet/i_—and growled in his throat. A noise to scare away whatever fucked up emotions were threatening to come out and devour him. As usual, Cas stared at him. Dean could feel his eyes burning patterns into his neck, like he was trying to figure him out; wondering how something so fucking broken, so hollowed out, was still alive and kicking.

"Dean.."

Dean closed his eyes tight.

"Whatever I've done to you—"

"Stop it."

Dean finished off the rest of the flask, throwing the liquid down his throat in such a hurry that it made his head spin. He felt woozy, but he knew that none of it was because of the alcohol. It was because Cas was suddenly so close, grabbing his free hand. Dean didn't dare move. His heart was racing in his chest, punching out notes against his ribcage. When Cas flipped his hand palm-up, Dean swallowed hard, watching his long slender finger trace the lines. Cas was studying his hand closely, touching him in a way that made Dean's skin flush. Suddenly, he was staring into those gorgeous blue eyes and watching those full lips move.

"These hands.. have been through so much."

Dean licked his lips nervously. "Cas.."

A shiver, a shudder—something—ran through his body, making his skin prickle. He was trembling and Dean couldn't pass it off to just the cold. He wanted to badly to touch Cas, kiss him, anything, and he was shaking with it. Cas didn't take notice or, if he had, he didn't pay any attention to it. Somewhere along the way, Dean must have dropped Bobby's flask because it was an empty hand that came up to brush against Cas' skin. He sent the apology of gentle fingertips against Cas' wound; something that had become a shallow scratch due to the angel's self-healing. With the touch, Cas let out a subdued sigh and stepped a little bit closer. Dean held his breath.

"Dean.." Cas looked into his eyes. "I may not know who I am or what I've done—"

Dean hung onto his every word, intoxicated by his proximity, his warmth.

"—what I _do_ know.." A pause, the slight drop of his eyes. "..is that I love you and I would do anything for you because I can feel it, right here."

Cas lifted the hand and put it against his chest. His skin was warm, his heart beating wildly. Dean stopped breathing.

"I don't need a memory to know that."

A burst of nervous trembling racked Dean's body. He licked his lips again and his voice cracked. "Cas.."

Cas let his hand go, but Dean didn't move it. He kept it there, against the angel's chest, just so he could touch him just a few seconds more. The arm collapsed at the elbow when Cas stepped in closer to grab his face, to bring him into a delicate kiss. The instant their lips touched Dean let out a moan and almost lost the strength in his legs. The kiss.. was so chaste and so beautiful that he felt his eyes grow glassy. All of his pent-up emotions just.. fell away and he melted into that kiss, slowly opening his mouth to let Cas in. Their tongues slid together and Dean's hands slipped down to Cas' hips. The angel felt incredible this close and he savored every second of it. Their mouths fell into a rhythm, giving and taking, not even allowing them any second to simply _breathe_.

When Dean did let himself breathe, he held Cas' face gently as if he were made out of the finest china, kissing him with just the softest touch of his lips. Dean had intended that to be the end of it. He had intended to walk away, leave Cas there, escape from _this_, his feelings, _everything._ But Cas wouldn't have it.

The angel grabbed the collar of his jacket and pulled him in hard, revving up the passion. Dean's dick reacted first, hardening up quicker than it ever had. It pressed against the zipper of his jeans and made Dean ache. He wanted to fuck the angel until he was laid out and spent beneath him, covered in sweat. Blindly, he let his body do the thinking for him.

Dean returned the passion with a fire of his own, mouth and tongue moving in tandem with Cas'. He backed the angel up against the Impala and laid him out flat against her hood, never once breaking their kiss. With their hips pressed so close together, Dean could feel that Cas was hard too. The heat of their cocks together could melt ice and Dean wanted to feel more of that, drawn to the burning pitch. Dean swiveled his hips, grinding into Cas, drawing out a moan from the angel's throat. The way it sounded, so fucking wrecked and gorgeous, made Dean chase after it, wanting more of them.

Dean ripped Cas' shirt off, up and over his head, and blessed the newly-bare skin with soft kisses. He sucked at the side of his neck, peppering small kisses down to his collarbone. He could spend hours here, exploring the dips and rises, teasing him, _tasting_ him. But his body urged him on and Dean moved lower to suck on a nipple. Cas gasped and groaned loudly, arching his lower back, enough to press his chest upward against Dean's mouth. He sucked and sucked, swirling his tongue around the hard nub and making Cas tremble beneath him.

_God_, he wanted to fuck him. Lose himself in those groans and acres of soft skin. But it wasn't right. Cas didn't fucking remember who he _was_. Suddenly, Dean felt as if he were taking advantage of him. Fuck. He hadn't been thinking. What if Cas didn't want this? What if the real Cas, the Cas who remembered everything, never wanted this?

Dean whimpered at the back of his throat and peeled himself away. It was the most painful thing he had ever done.

"I—I can't do this, Cas," he whispered while backing away.

Cas looked at him wide-eyed, body splayed out and hair wild.

"I'm sorry."

Dean turned and ran into the house, slamming the door behind him with a fatal blow.

This was what dying felt like.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam stared at the book in front of him. The words were a sea of illegible script, nothing but blurry scribbles due to his lack of sleep. The nightmares had kept him awake, fragments of Hell seeping into his subconscious. The screams, the sound of bones being crushed still haunted him. Human flesh devoured by hideous things beyond his imagination. Although the things he had seen in Hell had been horrible beyond description, none of it compared to the brutality he had been subjected to, having been a prisoner between two warring brothers. Nothing had been more heart-rending than the sound of his own half-brother, Adam, screaming for help.

His insomnia, his utter _exhaustion_, were the least of his worries. The lingering fear in his bones after those nightmares was just another thing at the bottom of his list. Sam hunched down low and buried his eyes in those pages just so he wouldn't have to see the shadowy figure skirting just beyond his vision. Sam fought so hard to keep his concentration, ignoring the haunting presence he knew he couldn't escape. He tried to think of other things; Meg and her tie-in with Cas, Dick Roman and his endless army of Leviathan fiends. _Anything_.

The only true distraction came when Cas sat down across from him, seemingly from nowhere. Sam bit back a cry of surprise and tried to keep himself from jumping out of his own skin. His heart thundered in his chest and the sudden pressure of blood pumping through his system made him feel dizzy. When Sam calmed down, he was looking straight into curious blue eyes.

"Hey, Cas."

"_Ah, my little brother._"

Sam steeled himself against that voice, the one that lurked his dreams; both during wakefulness and sleep. Lucifer slithered out of his peripheral to stand a few feet away from Cas, looking him over. He said nothing and watched him closely. Sam tried to concentrate on Cas' face.

"Hello, Sam."

Sam couldn't help but notice that Lucifer had inched closer to Cas and was tilting his head in quiet contemplation. He tried so hard not to look at the Devil, but he couldn't help it. Lucifer was just _too close._

"_Only a shell of what he once was._"

Lucifer was behind Cas now, looking at the back of his head. His expression was one of genuine sadness. And his voice—that soothingly taunting tone—had a mixture of subdued longing and sorrow. "_So broken. So.. lost._"

The Devil looked at Sam over the top of his brother's head. "_Like you, Sam._"

"Sam."

Sam startled and took a deep breath, staring hard at Cas. The distorted edges of his conscious were frayed and he teetered on the edge of hysteria. When Cas took his hand, Sam calmed down a little. This felt real, this touch, this support, and it was something he could hold onto. Tightly, he gripped Cas' hand just to register the feel of skin on his own, of _reality_. Not dreams.

Cas' face flickered with a touch of pain, but he didn't try to take his hand away. "Do you know what I am?"

Lucifer tsked and crossed his arms over his chest. Sam made it a point to focus on the swirling blue of Cas' eyes, ignoring everything else. But he didn't need to _see _in order to hear that.. terrible voice.

"_He doesn't remember who he is.._" Lucifer shook his head. "_What a shame._"

Lucifer moved and Sam was forced to close his eyes to stop himself from looking at him.

"_Ah, but he's not the only one to forget who he really is, is he Sam?_"

Sam tried to calm his breathing.

"Sam?"

"I know who I am," Sam stated quietly.

"_Do you? Who are you then, Sam? A hero? Or are you a lost little boy in your brother's shadow?_"

Sam clenched his jaw.

"_No, you're worse_," Lucifer taunted. "_You're an abomination. Useless, too afraid to face your own demons._"

Sam shut his eyes tight, gritting his teeth so hard he thought they'd break in his mouth. "No."

"_You'll never get out, Sam. You're with me. I've still got you._"

"No. I'm here." A tear fell down his cheek. "I'm right here."

"Sam."

Sam opened his eyes to find Cas staring at him hard, squeezing his hand. Cas' fingers were pressed hard against his palm, against the old wound that had long-since healed over. In times like these, when the Devil sat on his shoulder, Sam used it as a reminder that he was here, alive, away from the cage. He had never forgotten what Dean had said to him and had used the wisdom in his time of need. But now, _here_, it wasn't working. Lucifer had complete control.

"_I've still got you in the cage, Sammy—"_

"Don't call me that," Sam hissed, glaring at him.

"_This—_" Lucifer continued, holding out his hands wide. "_—isn't real. My brother isn't real. Dean isn't real. He's living a life away from you, happy. Glad to be rid of you and all the disappointment you caused, all the shame._"

"You're lying," Sam growled, shaking his head in defiance. He closed his eyes tight. "You're lying!"

Somewhere beyond his conscious, Cas whimpered in pain, trying to pull his hand away. Sam held onto it harshly as if it were his only lifeline, unable to let it go. Too afraid. Another whimper, a rougher pull. Quietly, Cas whispered, "Sam. This.. hurts."

"_Am I? Why would I lie to you, Sam?_"

Sam shook his head violently, still holding on to Cas' hand. "This is real. This is real. This.. has _got_ to be real. I can't go back there again. I can't be there—"

"_Sammy.._" His name was carried over several taunting syllables. "_Sammy, look at me!_"

But it wasn't Lucifer's voice anymore. It was Dean's. Relief and elation rushed over Sam, making him dare believe that he was safe, that he'd be all right. Quickly, to confirm that Dean was truly there, that he needn't be afraid anymore, Sam opened his eyes—

—and stared at Lucifer's face.

"_You're still mine!_"

Lucifer's hand burst through Cas' chest, gripping and kneading a mush of bloodied organs.

"Cas!"

Cas' eyes went wide, his mouth open in a silent scream. Sam rushed forward, grabbing his lifeless face in his hands. He was so pale, so.. dead. He had stopped breathing long ago and his blue eyes, once sparkling with life, were glassy. He was gone..

_Cas was gone_.

:::

The hot water felt amazing on his skin, running down his body and soothing his sore muscles. Dean stood in the shower and heaved a breath, thankful for the few moments he had to himself, away from everything. From Cas and his amnesia, from his brother and his breakdowns. The only thing he had, here and now, was the sound of running water, the heavy steam in the room… his own damning thoughts.

Dean was exhausted. Not just physically, but mentally too. After the loss of Cas, Bobby, the shit with Dick Roman, all Dean wanted to do was disappear down the drain. Say fuck it all and be done with it. Dean knew that he'd never do that; never leave Sam behind to face this mess alone. Instead, he'd man up after his silent pity party and face a new day; one that was probably going to be shitter than yesterday or the day before. The second shoe always dropped sooner or later. Fuck that. The second shoe _had _already dropped and the hits kept coming.

With another cleansing sigh, Dean put his face directly beneath the running water. The tiny streams felt like fingers all over his body, pressing into cuts and bruises, kneading sore muscles. Out of nowhere, for whatever goddamn reason, he thought of Cas, touching him, melting into his own space. This was getting out of hand. Ever since last night, Cas' lips, Cas' _everything_, was all he could think about. His closeness, the hot pitch of his body, the way Cas had trembled beneath him, so eager to be—

His cock hardened immediately. Dean knew he never had any control over his dick, but this? Reacting over his best friend?

"Come on, man."

It was too late. Another mental image of Cas, bent over with his ass up for sacrifice, lanced through his thoughts. His heart began racing, pulse pounding in his throat, while his cock leapt with excitement. Dean sighed frustratedly. At least here, Dean could take out how much he wanted to fuck Cas on his dick and no one would be the wiser. No one would be harmed, their dignity cheapened. No one would leave feeling guilty. Only a little chafed.

Dean eased out another breath, taking up the bottle of body wash before squirting a bit of it in his hands. It smelled like.. flowers or some shit and probably belonged to Sam. Either way, it would certainly do the trick and his cock was getting impatient.

He applied the soap to his hard length, slipping it between his fingers with practiced expertise. After years of experience, he knew just the way he liked it; hard, a little rough, just enough teasing to get excited but quick enough to be efficient. Dean started slow, palming his balls gently, rolling them in his hand with a bit of a tug. He thought of Cas' mouth all over him, those full lips gently pinching the skin and sucking, pulling just a little bit.

Dean couldn't help but whimper, moving his hand lower so that a finger teased at his hole. He stuck it in just far enough, tip breaching his rim and sending sparks up and down his dick. It pulsed again with the thrill, snapping to attention like the perfect soldier it was before resting against his skin again. He imagined Cas' fingers at his hole now, teasing it, stroking it steadily yet softly enough to make him go fucking crazy. He couldn't take much more of this.

The urge to satisfy himself was strong. Too strong. Dean took up the dare with a firm fist, wrapping fingers around his aching erection. Usually, Dean would need a minute or two of teasing himself to get going. Thinking of Cas? He was ready at the gate, chomping at the bit to finish fast. Dean didn't waste any time, gripping himself tight, jerking his cock hard and quick. Cas was pressed front-first into the shower tiles, ass cheeks and thighs spread wide for him. The angel begged to be fucked with those gorgeous blue eyes, full mouth drawn into a pout while he whined, pleading for more.

The thought of fucking him here, in the shower, was exhilarating. Pinning him against the tiles, drilling into him harder and harder. Dean bit his own lip while the first flames of his orgasm started to lick at his balls. He imagined pulling Cas' hair, slipping in and out of him with ease. Dean mimicked the motion with his hand, pitching his hips forward into the tight hole. Over and over again. His thighs started quaking. In his head, Cas begged him to go faster, harder, and Dean obliged by fist-fucking himself into oblivion. He swiped a thumb over the head of his dick, inciting a strong pulse of _almost there _through his body. Dean gripped his cock even tighter, moving his hand with blinding speed, bringing himself closer and closer. Just a few more strokes—

With a gasp and a long drawn-out groan, Dean came and squirted out all over his hand in a rush of ecstasy. He bit his lip hard in order to prevent himself from calling Cas' name, fighting to keep some semblance of dignity. All of the tension had been released from his body, replacing aches and pains with utter relaxation and lethargy. For the first time in several days, Dean felt a little more normal, no longer on the edge of insanity. Maybe he could face a few more bumps in the road now, having slept and.. taken care of himself; a chore he had neglected for a few days. For a second, he almost felt on top of the world. The power of a fucking-good orgasm.

Dean turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, quick to dry himself off. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he stood in front of the mirror and stared at his own reflection. His eyes were red-rimmed with dark circles. All of the stress was wearing him down and, suffice it to say, he looked like shit. The stuff with Cas and Sam.. it was tearing him down piece by piece, leaving him a haggard shell of what he once was. It was all coming to a head for him; losing Bobby, the lingering memories of Hell scarring his psyche. Just matter of time before he fucking lost it, before there was no choice other than to lock him away in an asylum or, worse, put him out of his misery.

_God, you're a fucking mess._

With a sigh, he brushed his teeth, combed his hair and shrugged into his clean clothes before leaving the bathroom. The rest of the house was quiet. He wondered if Sam and Cas were even up yet. His question was quickly answered.

There, at the kitchen table, sat Sam and Cas, staring at each other.. a little too intensely. His brother's hand was gripping Cas' forearm, faced screwed up in fear. Cas was wide-eyed, whispering to him in a tone that was soothing. What the fuck—

"Uh, guys? Something up?"

They both startled and turned to look at him. Neither of them said a goddamn thing and Sam was the first to really react. His brother went from having seen a fucking ghost to being as calm as a cucumber. Like someone had flipped a switch. He shook his head and leaned back, seeming a little shaken but overall.. normal.

"No, I uhh—I think we're good. Right, Cas?"

Cas dropped his eyes and said nothing.

Dean narrowed his eyes. There was something going on here, he knew it. He just couldn't put a finger on it. For whatever reason, Dean didn't care to find out. Instead of prying, he swept it under the proverbial rug and turned away from them.

_Just another hour_, he thought, wanting a little more time for himself. Dean knew he was being incredibly selfish, but he was tired and just plain burnt out. Opening the refrigerator door, he rummaged through it to find a leftover slice of pie. Apple, his favorite. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled its sweet aroma. It was a tangible piece of heaven, just for him. And if this was all he could have in the world, just this, unspoiled and rich, he'd be the luckiest man in the world. It was all in the simple pleasures.

Dean grabbed a fork and turned away, glancing at his brother on the way by. Sammy's face was shell-shocked and his eyes were distant. Dean knew that his brother hadn't been sleeping. The tossing and turning, the whimpering and screams at night were indicative of nightmares. And while he was awake—well, who the fuck knows what he was dealing with.

With his pie in hand, Dean sighed and sank into the couch cushions. Just another hour, he told himself, and he'd be back to being big brother, making sure Sam was okay and upright. For now, guilt slowly seeping in, Dean grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV. Spanish filled his ears and he recognized the soap opera immediately. It was the one he had watched while laid up with a broken leg. _Ricardo. Suicidio_. Dean watched the tail end of it, following along as much as he could given the unfamiliar language. This badly-written, overly-dramatic crap wasn't why he had turned on the TV in the first place.

When the opening credits to _Dr. Sexy, MD_ started, Dean got way too fucking giddy for his own good. He stuffed a biteful of pie in his mouth and chewed vigorously, oblivious to the outside world. On today's episode, Dean would finally find out who the fuck was the father of Dr. Piccolo's baby. And it was about goddamn time. They'd been dragging that shit out for weeks.

Fifteen minutes and half the apple pie slice later, Cas picked an inopportune time to cross in front of the TV. Dr. Piccolo was about to learn the identity of the father from the paternity test when Cas sat next to him on the couch, way too close. Dean frowned and glared at him just because he had the audacity to distract him. Cas stared at his slice of pie before his intense, blue eyes found his face. Defensively, Dean hovered the fork over his pie protectively, twisting and scooting away. On the TV screen, Dr. Piccolo's eyes went wide and just when she was about to say the name of the father—

"Dean, I'm worried about Sam."

"Shh!"

Dean wiggled to the edge of his seat.

From the TV, Dr. Piccolo gasped. "_—Derek Palmer.."_

"Ha! I knew it!" Dean grinned, "It's Dr. Sexy. The baby's daddy is Dr. Sexy!" Dean looked at Cas. "I _so_ called it."

Cas looked confused and said nothing.

Dean stuffed his face full of pie, mumbling at the TV with his mouth full. "Dr. Wang is gonna kill you when she finds out you were cheating on her—"

"Dean—"

"Cas, come on, man! I'm trying to watch this!"

Thankfully, Cas took the hint and didn't talk until it was over. As soon as the rolling credits crawled across the screen—

"That.. was ridiculous," Cas mumbled.

Dean glared at him. "You're ridiculous."

They traded frowns. With a smirk, Dean was up on his feet, walking back to the kitchen to place his plate in the sink. He pulled two beers out of the refrigerator and joined Sam, sitting across from him. His brother looked.. so goddamn tired, dark circles under his eyes, face pale. He looked like shit.

"Hey. You okay, man?"

Sam looked up at him wearily, tossing him a weak smile. "I'm fine, Dean."

Dean didn't argue. He trusted Sam to come to him if he really got in over his head. With a smile, Dean offered him a beer. "Got any leads?"

Sam refused it with the shake of his head. "Uhh. None. Nothing. We've got nothing, Dean."

Dean put the beer down, taking a swig of his own. "Has Frank called yet?"

"No, we should call him. He might have something."

"Let's exhaust our other options first."

Sam gave Dean a look.

"Last time I called him, he went off on some bullshit rant about nothin' and that was a couple of days ago. The son of a bitch won't have anything new," Dean reasoned.

"What else are we—"

"I feel a presence here," Cas interjected from the couch.

Dean raised a hand to quiet Sam. He twisted in his chair to look at Cas. "What?"

"A presence.. it's here. I can feel it."

Dean turned back to Sam and pointed. "Bobby."

Sam rolled his eyes. "We burned—"

"So you keep telling me, Sam. I'm tellin' you. It's Bobby."

Sam gave him a look.

"What? Weirder shit has happened," Dean said.

His brother didn't look convinced.

"Unicorns," Dean reminded him. He snapped as if he had remembered something and pointed at him. "Fairies."

Sam sighs. "Dean, what are we gonna do? Sit here on our asses, hoping something'll happen?"

Dean couldn't say anything before—

"The only lead we got is Meg."

Dean flinched. "Whoa, whoa. Meg? That's what you come up with? Meg?"

"Well, yeah. Think about it. She wanted Cas for some reason. Don't you want to know why?"

Dean tossed a glance over Cas' way who was definitely trying to pretend he wasn't eavesdropping. With a frown, he turned back to Sam and leaned in. "She's not the sharing type, Sam."

"Not normally, no."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "What are you saying?"

"You said she's free-floating."

"So?" Dean challenged.

"We can summon—"

Dean felt like he had been slapped. "Dude, no. No way. I'm not bringing that bitch here. Besides, we can't. Even if we could summon her here, we've got no vessel. And in case you forgot.." Dean pulled down the collar of his shirt to reveal the anti-possession tattoo. "You've got one too."

Sam said nothing. His eyes did all the talking when they slipped to Cas. In that second, Dean couldn't have been more angry. "Fuck you, no," he hissed.

"He's the only—"

"No. Out of the fucking question," Dean growled.

Sam sighed in frustration and leaned back in his chair. Before Dean could say anything else, he heard Cas get up from the couch. Dean sighed inwardly and pinched the bridge of his nose as Cas came up beside them. He already knew where this was going.

"I want to help," Cas said quietly.

"Nope. Not gonna happen," was Dean's response.

"Dean—"

"Cas!" Dean snapped, glaring up at him. "We're gonna find another way."

"Dean, vessels aren't exactly a dime a dozen around here," Sam reminded him.

"Dean.." Cas whispered softly. "I want to do this. Please.. let me help you."

Dean closed his eyes, defeated. His voice was barely audible. "You don't even know what that means."

"That's not important," Cas returned gently.

Dean clenched his teeth. He couldn't deny the logic. They were out in the sticks, miles from civilization and Meg was their only lead. Still, his brain waged war with his heart. He feared for Cas' safety. If he lost him again—

"Cas," Dean began, "go stand over there."

"Dean—"

"Let me talk to my brother alone."

Without another word, Cas slipped away. Dean didn't dare open his mouth until the angel was well away from ear-shot. Satisfied, Dean turned to Sam. "How do we know if this is gonna even work? He's a fucking angel."

"_Cas_ is an angel. Half angel. His vessel isn't. It can hold a demon."

"Okay. And Cas? What about him?"

"I suspect—"

"You suspect," Dean echoed bitterly. They were fucking _guessing _on Cas' safety.

Sam frowned. "Just like any normal possession, Cas will take a back seat while the demon—err, Meg takes over."

"Any normal possession," Dean hissed. "News flash, Sammy. This isn't a normal possession. This is Godzilla meets Mothra in downtown Tokyo or whatever the fuck. Angel versus demon. And not just any demon, Sam. Meg. Wicked bitch of the West."

"I know that, Dean! But we don't have any other choice."

Dean leaned back in his chair. "Shit." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "You have any bright ideas on how we're gonna pull this off, genius? It's not like we can call her and invite her over for tea."

"There's this spell I found in one of Bobby's journals. It should do the trick. But it's not gonna be easy—"

"Never is," Dean mumbled.

"—I think we have everything as far as ingredients go. But.. we gotta know her real name."

Dean sighed, knowing that getting a demon's real name was as difficult as—fuck. He was too tired to think.

"Demons keep their true identity pretty locked down. I don't know how we're gonna—"

"Druj. Her true identity is Druj," Cas interjected.

Sam and Dean traded looks. Sam was the first to spout out the question they were both secretly asking themselves. "How do you know that, Cas?"

"I.. don't know."

"Okay. Druj it is." Dean looked back at Cas, arching a brow. "Druj? Really?"

Cas shrugged.

Dean turned back to Sam, chugging back a gulp full of beer. "Sounds like something outta Ghostbusters."

"That was Zuul," Sam corrected almost irritatedly.

"Close enough."

"Dean—"

"Yeah, okay. If we're gonna do this, I want this place locked down tighter than Fort Knox. Devil's trap, Enochian sigils.. the whole nine yards. Whatever we gotta do, Sam. Understand?"

The two brothers agreed and went their separate ways. Over the course of an hour, Sam had gathered all the supplies for the spell while Dean had taken care of drawing the Devil's Trap on the floor. For the Enochian Sigils, all three of them had donated blood to the cause. Dean had fully planned on handling the sigils himself, but realized that he wouldn't have to. As soon as Dean had the chance, he stole a look at Cas.

There, on one of the walls, the angel was already drawing the symbols. He looked.. dazed, not completely there. It was the type of far-off expression that made Dean feel as if Cas were on auto-pilot. Stuck in a trance with his mind somewhere else. He dipped his slender fingers into the blood, smearing it on the walls in a language Dean barely understood. Dean couldn't stop watching him, entranced by the way he moved; so fluidly, so.. confident just like the old Cas; the angel who hadn't forgotten who he was or what he had done. The Cas he sorely missed.

Finished, Cas stood back to admire his handy work. He blinked hard, tilting his head down as if overcome with a sudden headache. His face screwed up in pain and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Before Dean could abandon everything and rush over to him, Cas looked up, staring wide-eyed at the symbols. He appeared completely shocked and looked immediately at Dean for answers.

Dean smiled and said softly, "It's okay."

Cas accepted his answer and nodded, no longer concerned.

After a few more preparations, Dean had Cas sit down in the chair set in the middle of the Devil's Trap. Dean felt a twinge of guilt when Cas made a pained noise as the ropes bit into his wrists. He couldn't take any precautions. The bindings had to be as secure as possible. Still, it didn't wash away the regret Dean faced when Cas continued to whimper, flinching against the tightness of the ropes around his ankles. Dean used the left over blood to draw tiny little protective sigils on Cas' skin, using the soft, reassuring strokes of fingertips to calm the angel's frazzled nerves. It was a tenderness that startled him, that made him ache with the want to touch under more.. intimate circumstances. Cas shivered, more from nervousness than the cold, Dean knew. It was fucking hot in here and Cas.. might as well be human with normal, human emotions. Fear being one of them.

Dean put a soft hand over Cas' fingers, wrapping them tight with his own. He looked him in the eyes. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, all right?"

Cas nodded.

"The bitch will be in, we'll get the answers we need, and then she'll be out. Easy as pie. Then we'll all have a beer and relax. Sound good?"

Cas nodded again, but said nothing.

Dean squeezed his hand and stood up, turning to walk away. Before he could—

"Dean?"

Dean shot a glance over his shoulder. Cas' face was full of genuine fear. There was a certain irony in that; an angel being afraid of a demon of all things. "You're gonna be okay."

Dean walked away to stand beside Sam. His eyes stayed on Cas while his brother started the incantation, muttering ancient words in a dialect that Dean had never heard before. It didn't take long for something to happen. The lights flickered and the house began to rattle. Suddenly, the house shook to its bones and light bulbs began popping all around them, leaving the room in total darkness. The lines and symbols of Devil's Trap burned hot, emanating an odd red glow reminiscent of Hell itself. Dean couldn't deny that he was fucking scared out of his skin. But when Cas started convulsing, crying out with a pained scream—that was when he fucking lost it.

Dean nearly abandoned his post by his brother. Sam's huge hand gripped his forearm and stopped him before he could come to Cas' rescue, to prevent him from fucking up everything before it had even started. Dean's gut tightened and lurched when Cas screamed again. The angel's head lolled lifelessly to his chest and everything went quiet.

The only thing Dean could hear was his heart pounding in his ears, his breath laboriously loud. His anxiety peaked and only subsided a little when Cas lifted his head and—

A cold, heartless smile crept onto his face, once-blue eyes totally black. Fucking Meg.

"Ah, the Winchester boys."

Dean felt sick.

Cas—Meg, whoever the fuck, looked down and rotated bound wrists. The expression on Cas' face became one of pointed amusement, tongue licking out lewdly across thick lips. "I'm flattered by the gift. I've always wanted to rip this pretty boy angel apart."

Dean growled in his throat and grabbed Ruby's knife. It took him two strides to stand in front of Cas, to bring the knife to bear against his jaw line. He was disgusted and fucking pissed. "Listen real close, you bitch. You're only here for one thing: to give us answers. And, so help me, if you don't—"

Cas jolted forward, flashing his tongue forward in attempts to lick him. Dean narrowingly missed by jerking his head back. Cas laughed. It was an evil, disturbing laugh. "Or you'll what? Stick me? Carve out chunks of him? Bullshit. The only thing you'll stick him with is your dick."

Dean flinched.

"How's that going by the way, Dean? Have you fucked him yet?"

Dean tightened the muscle in his jaw. He brought the blade closer, the edge of it almost touching skin. "Why do you want Cas?"

Cas didn't seemed phased in the least. "Have you gotten him on his knees yet? Begged him to suck you dry?"

Dean growled in anger, but couldn't quite find it in himself to cut the bitch. It was still Cas' body. "Why do you want Cas!"

Cas snarled, snapping teeth as if trying to bite him. "I'm not telling you shit."

Dean heaved a breath, barely able to control himself. He shook with rage, wanting so badly to cut her, to teach her a goddamn lesson. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he wanted to, _it was still Cas_.

"What's the matter, Deano? Lost your touch? Can't bear to torture little 'ol me?"

Dean twisted his face into a disgusted snarl and stepped back. The distance didn't last long. As soon as Cas started convulsing again, whispering his name in a voice that was totally _Cas_, Dean was right there, cupping his face, blade still in hand.

"Cas?"

Cas snapped his head up, twisted smile written on his face. "Guess again!"

Dean jumped back and stared before turning away, trying to ignore the deep, haunting laughter of that fucking bitch. He went to Sam, his only solace, and handed him Ruby's knife. "I can't do this.."

Sam looked at him incredulously, almost shocked. But it wasn't about the shift in duties. "Dean? You and Cas?"

"Oh, come on, Sam! She's lying! Demons fucking lie!"

And so do brothers, apparently. Sam nodded and accepted the lie, taking up the blade without further question. Dean didn't have time, nor the fucking patience, to dwell over what had just happened; that he had lied to Sam about Cas. This wasn't the time nor was it the place.

Dean watched as Sam stopped in front of Cas. Without any hesitation, his brother cut into the angel, drawing out a pained scream. Dean shifted uncomfortably behind him, not being able to do anything but endure. When Cas recovered—

"Is that the best you can do, boy?"

"Why do you want Cas!" Sam hissed.

"I'm not tellin—"

Sam sliced into Cas again, inciting another scream of pain. Dean felt nauseous. Over and over again, Sam carved into Cas, asking over and over the same goddamn question. Dean's knuckles were blasted white from how hard he was clenching his hands. A scream. Another. Again. Dean had had enough.

"Sam! This isn't working!"

"Dean! Just—"

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face and stepped forward then back, trapped between wanting to rescue Cas and letting this play out. Cas laughed again and Sam cut, pulling out another scream. Finally, his brother turned and wiped his brow with the back of his bloody hand. Dean hoped he was giving up. This bullshit wasn't working—

"Sammy.." Cas called out over several long, taunting syllables. "How's Daddy? You still seeing him in that fucked up little head of yours?"

"Shut up."

Dean could only see the back of Sam's head. He didn't need to see his brother's face to know that Meg's words had hit a mark. Sam's body language became more hostile, strong legs bringing him over to Cas quickly. Angrily.

"I hate to break it to you, baby, but you never left the cage. You're still there, roasting. Tortured over and over again. None of this.. is real."

"Shut up.." Sam groaned out.

"Sam—"

"We're gonna rip you apart, Sam. We're going to flay the skin from your bones," Cas hissed.

Sam gripped his head.

"And then we're gonna get your brother and _eat_.. _him_.. _alive_!"

"No!"

Before Dean could react, Sam lunged forward and stuck Ruby's knife deep into Cas' lower torso. Dean choked on a scream, willing his wobbly legs forward, trying to make it to Cas. Everything moved slowly, like molasses, slower than one of those fucking terrifying dreams. All Dean could see was blood, Cas' mouth gaping in horror, eyes shocked wide. Red light flickered along his body, signifying that Meg was gone. Everything else… Dean couldn't register. It was too much. Too fucking much.

Dean grabbed Sam and pulled him away, yelling, "Get the fuck away from him!" before falling into a kneeling position before Cas. He grabbed the knife Sam had dropped and cut the ropes around his wrists, catching his limp body when it pitched forward. Gently, Dean held the angel's face in his hands, looking into his eyes. Cas was so fucking pale and there was so much blood. Dean looked away from the wound, concentrating on those gorgeous blue eyes; things that were fading fast.

"Cas!"

"Dean.."

Dean tried to smile at him, pretending for his sake that everything was okay. "Cas. I'm here."

He looked at the wound again and grimaced at how deep it was, how much white light was pouring out of it. Dean couldn't deny that it was grievous, fatal. He knew that Cas probably wouldn't—Dean swallowed down the grief and put a hand over the wound, pressing against it with all the strength he had. "Come on, Cas. Stay with me. You're gonna be okay."

Dean snapped his head back, glaring at his brother who appeared to be just as lost as he was. "Do something!"

Sam snapped out of it and turned, running toward the bathroom.

Dean turned back to look at Cas. He looked even worse. "Cas, Cas.. come on. Look at me."

Cas opened his half-lidded eyes.

"Cas, I need you to heal yourself. You've done it before. Come on, man."

"I ca..n't—"

"Yes, you can. Yes, you can, Cas. Come on. Please. You can do it. I know you can."

"Dean.."

The way he whispered his name.. it sounded like goodbye. Dean bit back this overwhelming urge to scream in denial, to cry, to take the house down around him. Anything to stop this from happening. "Goddamnit, Cas. Don't you fucking say my name like you're saying goodbye."

Cas was losing consciousness.

Dean grabbed his face in both hands again, shaking it a little so Cas could stay awake. "Cas, listen to me. You listen to me! You gotta do it. Come on, man. I don't care how. Just do it. Please. I can't lose you again. I just.. can't."

Cas closed his eyes and his head lolled to the side. He felt lifeless in Dean's hands.

"Nonono. Don't.. _die_ on me! Don't you dare fucking die on me, Cas! I swear to fucking God—" Dean felt a heaviness in his chest. He was going to fall apart. "_Please_.."

Cas didn't move.

"Cas!"

Dean shook him a little, whimpering in the back of his throat. Hot tears flooded his eyes and sped down his cheeks. There was no response. With a cry, Dean ran a hand down Cas' cheek and pressed their foreheads together. His skin was cold, pale. Without thinking, Dean kissed Cas' lips, trying to wake him up with it, to say goodbye—he didn't fucking know. There was no warmth there, no sign of life at all. Dean felt like he was dying, like his heart was being pulled out of his chest and ripped to shreds. He had lost Cas.. _again_. Fucking _again_ and he couldn't handle it. Fucking couldn't handle it. Dean broke the kiss and let the sobs wrack his body, let the tears stream down his face. He held Cas like this, so close, skin touching. And that was when he felt it.

Cas' breath against his skin.

"Cas?" Dean cupped his face more firmly, eyes bouncing all over to register any inflection. Anything at all.

"Dean.."

His voice was so quiet that Dean could barely hear him. Dean rubbed his cheek with the swipe of a thumb. "Hey, _hey_. I'm here. I'm here, Cas."

"I'm.. so..rry.."

"What?"

Suddenly, Dean felt Cas' fingertips against his chest, searching, pressing hard against skin. He didn't have time to grab Cas' hand, to hold it affectionately in his own before he felt it; searing pain, worse than he had ever experienced. It ripped through his body, burning every cell and every nerve ending all at once. His head swam, his skin was on fire. He was back in Hell, being tortured with knives and hooks. But it was fucking worse, the pain, the agony… was fucking _worse_. His lungs constricted. He couldn't breathe. _Oh fuck._ He couldn't brea—

_To be continued.._


	5. Chapter 5

_"I'm sorry, Dean."_

_Here, in Crowley's laboratory, Purgatory opened up like a monster's mouth, deep and black with no end in sight. Dean could feel his fear manifested in that darkness. It represented one of the things that scared him shitless the most; the very notion that he'd lose everyone he had ever loved._

_The darkness sprang out of the hole in the wall and latched itself onto Cas, thick tendrils acting like claws to hook into his skin. It began to pull him closer toward its endless black while Dean tried to scream for him. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Dean was powerless. He couldn't warn him. Somehow, he knew then that he wouldn't be able to do anything to save him. He was completely useless just like he had always been. Cas would be just another person he had failed, just another loved one that would die because of him._

_Cas looked back at him with those impossibly blue eyes. He was saying his silent goodbye in that soulful stare. Dean tried to move, tried to fight for him, but couldn't. He tried to reach for him, fingertips grazing against his skin, but the darkness pulled him away before he had a chance. Without voice, he begged Cas to fight with his eyes. Instead of fighting, Cas simply let the blackness take him, allowing it to swallow him up whole. The last thing Dean saw of Cas was his beautiful face twisted in pain. The sounds of his screams rang in his head and nearly stole the strength from his legs. And when the hole closed up, when Cas was completely gone, that was when Dean could finally move._

_He ran to the wall and started clawing at it._

:::

"Dean—"

Dean woke with a jolt, instinctively twisting to his side to reach for the gun beneath his pillow. Its cold steel brought him to reality and he sat there, bleary eyed, looking straight into Sam's face.

"Whoa, whoa. Dean. Hey, it's me. _Sam_."

"Sam?" Dean echoed, narrowing his eyes through the haze of his own confusion. It was Sam, all right. Floppy-haired and large, looming over him like a sasquatch. Sam sat in a chair next to his bed, assuming the role of watchful brother, with his eyes filled with concern. When Dean recognized him, when his face recovered from its frown, Sam leaned back and smiled softly. In turn, Dean relaxed and that was when he felt it; the soreness of his body, the utter exhaustion that seemed to run bone-deep. Dean only gave his condition a passing thought before his brain jumped the track to— "Where's Cas?"

"He's fine," Sam returned gently.

"Is he—"

"Yeah, he's alive. Sleeping right now."

Dean blew out a breath of relief.

"You were calling out to him in your sleep."

"Yeah, bad dream," Dean mumbled.

A nightmare that had left him shaken and still clinging to his gun. He finally let it go, melting into the mattress with a relaxation that could only come from knowing that everything was normal; that they were all barely treading water instead of drowning. The way it had been for the last few years.

Dean buried his face into his arm for a moment, getting a grip on reality, before flipping onto his back again. There, in the quiet light of dawn, he could see Sam's face fully. His brother looked tired and broken, but none of that, the fact that Sam seemed so unraveled, could dissolve the anger he suddenly felt burning in his gut.

"Dean, I'm—"

"What's going on with you? What happened back there?"

Sam looked at him with wounded eyes. His brother's face told him everything; how scared he was, how lost, how deeply sorry he was. Dean steeled his jaw and leveled him with a hard look. He could feel a frown creep slowly onto his own face and his heart harden in resistance.

"Dean," Sam began in a whisper. "I'm… I'm falling apart here." Tears rimmed his brother's eyes. "I can't do this—"

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "I get what you're going through, man. I really do. But the fact that you let it get _this_ bad before coming to me for help—"

"What can you do, Dean, huh?"

Dean felt like he had been slapped.

"How can you help me? Because I really wanna know. You can't—" Sam sighed loudly, hands gripping the air in frustration. "You can't just glue me back together this time, Dean. I'm not some… broken toy you can fix like when we were kids, all right? You can't fix this!"

Dean clenched his teeth to deal with the sting of Sam's words. It was just like his nightmare; he couldn't save the ones he loved. And in this second, in the midst of Sam's angry outburst, it was all painfully apparent.

"Yeah, okay. So maybe I can't fix whatever the fuck is going on with your head. I get that. But you can't go around freaking out with the drop of a hat every fucking time we gotta take care of something, all right? For fuck's sake, man, get it together."

Sam clenched his jaw. "I'm trying—"

"Well, not hard enough!" Dean cut in venomously. "You almost killed Cas, dude. That is not fucking okay. If you're not gonna let me help you, however I can, then you gotta figure this shit out before you get us all killed. You got it?"

Sam didn't say anything.

"I'm sick and fucking tired of everything going to shit for us. You, Bobby... _Cas_." Dean growled. "Shit, _me._ I just... want things to go right for us once in our goddamn lives."

Sam waited for a minute before saying, "You done?"

"Yeah, I'm fucking done."

"Good because this isn't just about _you_. I'm _trying_ to make it here, Dean. I'm _trying_ to be the brother you want me to be—"

"Sam—"

"I'm not done. I let you talk. Now, it's my turn."

Dean exhaled hard and quieted down.

"All I want is to get a little understanding here, Dean. You don't have the Devil riding on your shoulder, okay? You don't know what it's like."

"Wow," Dean spat out. "How do you know? You don't know what I went through in Hell, dude. You have no fucking idea." He swallowed hard, remembering what he had done. "The torture—"

"Yeah, I don't know. I wonder why that is, Dean. Maybe it's because you don't tell me shit. This street runs both ways, man."

"It's different—" _He_ had to be the strong one.

"Nope. Not different at all," Sam interjected. "Look. I'm trying to keep it together. For you. For Cas." Sam looked at him pointedly, "I'm _sorry_, okay? I fucked up real bad. Just..." Sam clenched his jaw. "I need you now, okay? I'm asking for help _now_."

"Yeah," Dean relented quietly, nodding. "Yeah, okay."

Dean watched as his brother began falling apart right in front of him. His brother's eyes welled up with tears, stern face crumbling with a softness that tugged at his heart. Dean admitted then that, despite all of this, hurting Cas and not asking for help, he'd stand by his brother no matter what—of course, he would. And when the tears fell down Sam's face, reminding Dean of when they were young, that was when all of the anger completely went away.

"Hey, come 'mere," Dean whispered, grabbing Sam's arm and pulling.

Sam leaned over and melted into the hug. Dean held him close and patted his huge shoulder. "Listen to me. I'm always gonna be here for you, Sammy. That's never gonna change, okay? This Lucifer bullshit? That's nothin' compared to what we've already been through, all right? We'll get through this."

When Dean didn't get a response, he shook Sam's shoulder a little. "Right?"

"Yeah," Sam mumbled into him.

"We'll figure this out, okay? I mean, shit, man, we stopped the Apocalypse. The Devil's got nothin' on us."

Sam chuckled a little.

Dean squeezed his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Exactly, so. Stay with me, okay? We got this." Dean squeezed him once last time.

Sam returned the squeeze with one of his own; a hug that nearly stole the breath out of Dean. His gargantuan of a brother straightened himself and offered a weak smile.

"Sorry for being a dick earlier, Sammy," Dean said.

"It's okay. I'm used to it," Sam said with a small grin.

"Whatever, jerk," Dean returned, trying to sit himself up. His muscles ached, screaming at him every time he moved. He bit back a hiss of pain. "Fuck, man. It feels like I was hit by a truck."

"Yeah, uhh... about that." Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "Cas... kinda had his way with your soul."

Dean winced again. "What?"

"He did his... recharge thing with your soul. Kinda like what he did with Bobby way back when—"

"Wait. I was soul-fisted?" Dean asked incredulously.

Sam made a face. "Uhh—I guess so?"

Dean smirked. "The dick didn't even buy me dinner first."

Sam chuckled. "Don't be such a baby. It's not that bad."

"Yeah, because you're a real soul-fist aficionado."

"Oh, big word," Sam teased.

"Fuck you," Dean squawked painfully. "I feel like I went twenty rounds with a wendigo. Or... shit, even marathon sex without the cuddling afterward. Oh hey, you know what that reminds me of? Remember that blonde back in—"

"Dean."

Dean coughed into a fist, clearing his throat.

"At least you don't have the Devil on your shoulder."

Dean pointed at him. "You can't use that as a get-outta-jail-free card."

"Who says?" Sam asked with a grin.

Dean couldn't help but share one of his own. "Punk."

The light-heartedness of the moment died when Sam's face turned regretful again. Dean knew what was coming before Sam even said it.

"Dean, I'm sorry—"

"You know what, Sam? I'm not the one you should be apologizin' to. In fact, I'm gonna go back to sleep. You do... whatever it is you gotta do."

Sam nodded and stood up from the chair, moving over toward the door. Dean settled deep into the covers again and rolled over to face the window, back to the door. He was determined to get more sleep if he was going to—

"Dean?"

Dean sighed softly. "Yeah?"

"Thanks... for everything."

"Yeah, yeah. Just thank your lucky stars you were given such a bad ass brother."

Dean could hear his brother chuckle as he closed the door.

:::

Castiel sat on the edge of the bed with his back straight and rigid. Just beyond the glass, the sky blossomed in color, brilliant against the washed-out blue of pre-dawn. The myriad of midnights, pinks and golds made him wonder what it'd be like to soar unbidden through the sky, the clouds, into the farthest reaches of Creation. He was an angel after all, that much he had discerned through the demon's memories. A being created by a Father he'd never know, belonging to a mythical place he'd never see. Finally, after all this time, Castiel knew the name for the ache in his heart; it was homesickness. A longing for Heaven, his home.

But home wasn't there, Castiel decided after a moment of contemplation. It wasn't among other angels, walking golden streets and singing hymns of praise and worship to his Father. Home wasn't a place where he followed orders blindly out of loyalty. Instead, it was here. Home was where ever Dean Winchester existed.

A soft knock at the door disturbed Castiel from his thoughts. He craned his head to throw a glance over his shoulder. There, in the doorway, was the younger Winchester boy, the most important person in Dean's life. Sam offered a weak smile and stepped inside the room, walking carefully toward him as if every step might send him into the floor. A curious man, this Sam Winchester, he who seemed to be on the verge of breaking any moment like fragile glass.

Castiel watched him approach tentatively, saying nothing as Sam sat down on the bed next to him. He looked into the boy's eyes and saw a deep sadness there, a misplaced emotion that made him tilt his head in quiet confusion. Sam swallowed and dropped his eyes to the floor, as if the weight of his own guilt was too much to bear. With an unsettled nervousness, Sam licked his lips and opened his mouth—

"I uhh... I wanted to talk to you. About—about last night," Sam stammered out. "Cas, I'm so—"

"There's nothing to forgive, Sam."

The confusion written on the boy's face was clear. Sam dropped his mouth open in surprise, staring at him with wide eyes. "H—How can you say that? I'm a monster. I almost..."

Castiel lifted a hand to his face, cupping a cheek with gentle fingers. He could feel the pain and desperation through his skin, the way it burned down to the depths of the young boy's soul. The exhaustion and fear seemed to seep out of his pores, leaving nothing but darkness and sadness in his eyes. The boy had no hope, all of it destroyed by the claws of something that lived beyond this existence. Something that was _haunting_ him. Castiel wanted nothing more than to carry that burden for him.

"There's nothing to forgive," Castiel emphasized, astonished by how broken he was. A moment of silent understanding passed between them. The younger Winchester pleaded for help with his eyes. "You're in so much pain, Sam Winchester."

Castiel thumbed a tear that trickled down Sam's face. Thread by thread, the boy fell apart, leaning into the touch as his defenses melted away. Choking back his emotions, Sam whispered brokenly, "I just... don't know what to do. I'm so tired... and afraid. I just—"

"Sleep," Castiel whispered, touching two fingers to his temple. Bonelessly, Sam fell against him and Castiel caught the boy in a loose embrace, holding him gently. To face his inner demons, Sam would need his rest.

Castiel looked out the window again, holding the younger Winchester, and contemplated what it would be like to have wings.

:::

The sunlight touched his face, warming his skin. Dean's thoughts drifted to his childhood home, where they were all happy, growing up like normal kids. Before Mom died. Before hunting. Before Dad's obsession with finding the yellow-eyed demon.

Dean remembered how the sun had come through the kitchen window, casting a halo around Mom's head. She had looked like an angel with her hair pulled up, soft around her face. In this particular memory, Dean had found her in the kitchen, cooking pancakes. Dean could remember the smell, how his stomach always grumbled for her food, the way she hummed "Hey Jude" even when she cooked. Yeah, that it was back then. The happiest time of his life.

He was just about to fall asleep to the memory of his mother's singing when the floorboards creaked. With a sharp inhale, Dean looked over at the door and found Cas, standing there, quietly staring at him. His heart sped up in his chest, banging against his ribs. It could only mean one thing; how fucking glad he was to see Cas. _Alive_.

Dean couldn't bring himself to say anything, too mesmerized by the way Cas was closing the distance between them. The angel had always walked with a distinguished grace, a fluidity of motion that almost always stole Dean's breath away. It was accentuated now by how grateful Dean was to still have him here. The thought of never seeing Cas again, moving with his usual subdued confidence—it was too much to bear. Thankfully, Dean didn't have to think about it at all.

The angel sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him with this... expression that told Dean how much he meant to him. It was soft, but yielded an intensity that Dean normally shrank under. Dean faced it fully, staring back at him until he couldn't take it anymore, until he was forced to look away. Cas drew him back with the light touch of fingers against his jaw, barely-there affection that made his heart punch out of his chest.

"Sam's asleep."

Dean simply nodded. With Cas so close, he could barely concentrate. His brain blocked any and all cognitive thought, making it impossible to do some of the simplest things. Like breathing. And with the air as charged as it was with all of these heavy emotions, Dean felt imprisoned and confused. The urge to say something, _anything_, was there, chomping at his bones. He wanted to tell Cas how scared he was to lose him again, how guilty he felt, how wrong he had been. With so many things to choose from, Dean decided to start out simple. "Cas, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let that—"

"What's done is done, Dean. Everything has its purpose."

Dean frowned. "But that doesn't—"

"Dean," Cas said evenly. "I knew the risks."

Dean licked his lips, nearly stunned at how _accepting_ Cas was about all of this. So accepting, so neutral about sacrificing himself, that it left Dean cold inside with fear. Dean began to think about the implications of that when Cas stood up and pulled back the covers to lay beside him. Here, Dean could smell the shampoo in his hair, the incredible warmth of his body, the softness of his skin. i_God/i,_ how he wanted to just lose himself in every inch of him, in everything Cas was in that moment.

Dean settled for shifting back away from temptation, laying on his side, to stare into those blue eyes. They were facing each other, inches apart, not touching. It was intimate, frustrating, and everything he wanted all at the same time. If the world came crashing in on them in that moment, Dean wouldn't give a fuck. He'd ignore all the demons of the world, even Death himself, for just a few seconds longer here with Cas. But it was a peace and acceptance of intimacy that wouldn't last long, Dean knew. He could already feel it niggling in the back of his mind; the fear of getting too close, too fast, and then losing him. He had lost Cas countless of times already. How many near-misses could he take?

To lighten the mood, to cheapen their moment with humor, Dean muttered, "You could have warned me before you soul-fisted me, you know."

Cas frowned. "Dean, there was no time."

Some things would never change. Like how literally Cas took jokes. With an exhale and half a chuckle, Dean whispered, "I know."

The smallest smile tugged at the corner of Cas' lips and Dean realized, right then, how close he had been to losing Cas again. To never seeing his face, to missing the annoying yet endearing way Cas never understood any of his references. He didn't even realize how much he missed the old Cas until now, either. The Cas who seemed to have known him inside and out. That nerdy dude with wings, the one that had always come when he called—

Dean held the angel's cheek in his hand and leaned forward to press their lips together. The rush of warmth, the incredible surge of completeness that he felt shocked him and left him feeling light-headed and vulnerable. Cas kissed him back in kind and the sweetness of it, its innocence, made Dean want so much more. A purity that Dean wanted to corrupt with the rawness of his lust.

Cas made a noise in the back of his throat that tempted him. It was a sound ripe with want and greed, personified by the way Cas intensified their kiss. _God_, the way Cas _needed_ this so badly was so goddamn gorgeous. Hungry for it, the angel wiggled closer and touched his face gently with the palm of his hand. In any second, any fucking second, this was going to go further than Dean wanted. He couldn't bear the temptation. He just couldn't justify this.

With a whimper, Dean broke the kiss and grabbed Cas' hand, pulling it down and away from his face. They stared at each other, locked together by beating of their hearts and the heaviness of their need. Dean took a deep breath and let it out with a nervous chuckle, holding Cas' hand tight.

Like this, with their fingers entwined, they both found comfort in the warmth of the sun and fell asleep.

:::

It wasn't a disturbing nightmare that woke him late that afternoon, nor was it the unbearable heat of his room. It was a sound that was as misplaced as demon in church, as weird as burger with no cheese. The noise he was hearing wasn't a scream, something that he was entirely too used to, or the sound of a gunshot from his silver, stainless Colt. It was laughter. Plain and simple. More importantly, it was _Sam's_ laughter.

Dean squinted against the brightness of the day and rolled over, fully expecting Cas to be there beside him. When he didn't find the angel there, still asleep and curled up beneath the covers, Dean couldn't help but feel a surge of disappointment. The feeling didn't last long. His emptiness was soon replaced by the uproarious growl of his stomach. He smelled f_ood_ and he was fucking hungry.

With a mumble over his aches and pains, Dean roused himself out of bed and padded over to the bathroom. He didn't even dare look into the mirror. The only thing he'd see was the shell of a man, the dark circles under his eyes telling his pathetic story. A tale about a man who would never amount to much, with nightmares and an alcohol addiction. Goddamn, he hoped that Sam's cooking would get him out of this shitty mood.

After brushing his teeth and running fingers through his hair, Dean abandoned the bathroom in favor of the bedroom's doorway. There, across the way, was Sam and Cas in the kitchen. Sam seemed pretty damn happy, probably having gotten a bit of sleep. And Cas… he was at the stove. Dean narrowed his eyes, immediately disapproving. What could an angel possibly know about cooking? He was skeptical, starving and didn't have any patience for Cas' version of "breakfast".

Still, it was a great thing to see them enjoying something for once. Really great, actually. So much so that Dean couldn't fight the smile off his face. His pissy mood showed its ugly head again, making him believe that all of this was just a dream; one that he'd never want to wake up from. He pinched his arm just to prove that he was right. As the pain danced along his skin, Dean was convinced that this was real, that they seemed genuinely upbeat. It was a small miracle that gave Dean a little more hope.

Dean slipped into the room and sat down at the dinette table, listening in on the conversation.

"Cas, no. You gotta flip it like how I taught you."

"But I _am_ doing it like that, Sam."

"Dude, just… Here, like this," Dean couldn't see what Sam was doing from here, but saw Cas nod his head in quiet understanding.

"There's a sight for sore eyes," Dean said, announcing his presence.

Sam looked over his shoulder and smiled. "Hey, Dean."

It took Cas a second or two to catch up. The angel didn't even look at him. "Hello, Dean."

"Cas, you can't cook them with your eyes," Sam said.

Cas held the spatula as if he were ready to attack, arm coiled like a snake. Dean couldn't help but grin, noting that the angel was blinking to keep himself from staring so hard, awkwardly taking Sam's advice. When his stomach growled again, Dean asked, "What are you two doing?"

"Cas is cooking eggs," Sam offered helpfully.

"Don't ask stupid questions, Dean."

Dean looked at Sam wide-eyed. They traded grins before Dean quipped again, "Wow, Cas. I didn't know you took cooking so damn seriously."

"I don't," Cas said, staring at the eggs and stabbing them with the spatula.

The brothers shared another look, a little more mischievous. Dean cleared his throat. "Woulda you hurry it up, Cas? A man's gotta eat around here."

Cas threw a glare at him. Dean covered his grin with a hand, growing serious when his stomach rumbled again. With a sudden urgency, Dean signed the word 'eat' to his brother, earning him a roll of eyes. He watched as Sam stepped over toward Cas and looked over his shoulder.

"Pretty sure those are done, Cas. Here's a plate."

When the plate of eggs, bacon and toast were put in front of him, Dean didn't waste any time. He shoveled one, two, three bites of eggs into his face, chewing them quickly in order to send them down to his awaiting stomach. They eggs were slightly crunchy and Dean soon figured out why; Cas had let slip a few eggshells. Okay, a few didn't cut it. There were a lot of eggshells.

"These eggs—"

Cas looked at Dean, hopeful.

"—are the best eggs I've ever had," Dean lied.

"Yeah, Cas," Sam coughed, wiping his face. "... really good."

Cas smiled and went back to picking at his food.

Dean bit into a burnt piece of bacon while sliding Sam's laptop over. During breakfast, he had hoped to get a little bit of research in. As he picked up his orange juice, Sam hissed out a warning. "Dude, be careful with my laptop."

Dean glared at him. "Sam, I got it. I'm not gonna hurt your precious baby."

"You better not," Sam mumbled around a piece of well-done toast.

His brother reached for the TV remote and turned it on. It was the news and Cas craned his head to watch while nibbling on bacon. "No Dr. Sexy?"

"No, Cas," Dean mumbled while tapping on the laptop's keys. "It's not on every day."

"Just boring old news," Sam commented, glued to the TV screen.

Dean tried to concentrate, hoping to go through his mental catalogue and narrow down a way to best help Sam. Spells, a self-help book on how to get rid of the Devil—_something_. The volume was up way too loud, disrupting his stream of consciousness. Before Dean could look something up on the Internet—

"Back to Dick?" Sam asked cheekily.

Dean frowned, looking at him. "No."

"Then what—"

The TV blared with some ridiculous newscast about glass blowing or some shit.

"Would you mind turning that down?" Dean snapped. When Sam did, he muttered, "Trying to figure out what to do with your head."

"Dean, come on. I can handle this myself."

"Obviously not, Sam. You almost killed Cas."

"Dean," Cas quickly chastised to Dean's surprise.

"Wow, dude. That hurt."

Dean looked at Sam. "What do you expect me to do, Sam? Ignore that you're a walking time bomb?"

Sam steeled his jaw. "Shouldn't we be concentrating on something more important? Like—"

"_Dick Roman—"_

Out of reflex, Dean reached across and grabbed the remote to turn up the TV.

"—_one of America's most powerful men, has announced his candidacy for the U.S. Senate today in a recent statement—"_

"Dick friggin' Roman," Dean growled with a burning hatred.

"I thought he wasn't planning to run for political office."

"Yeah, well. I guess he got sick of the whole number one bestseller bullshit," Dean hissed, turning off the TV. "... shit."

"The Leviathan..." Cas whispered, trailing off.

"Whoa, what?" Dean stared at him. Cas was looking at the black TV screen, clearly in some sort of trance. Leaning over, Dean gripped his arm, pulling just a little to snap Cas out of it. "What did you say?"

Cas looked at him, blinking hard several times. After taking a deep breath and letting it out, Cas licked his lips and said, "That man... is the Leviathan."

Dean and Sam shared a look. It was Dean who had lost his breath, shocked with incredulity. He managed to choke out a question. "How do you know that?"

Cas didn't say anything.

"Come on, Cas. If there's something you're not telling me..."

Cas closed his eyes. His voice was so low that Dean almost didn't hear him. "The demon... her memories."

Dean's frustration grew. "You're not making much sense here, man."

"Dean," Sam said, using a tone of voice that usually calmed him. It didn't work.

"When that... creature possessed me, I could hear her thoughts. I knew what she was thinking. I could feel her anger, her hatred. She knew... things."

Dean placed a hand on his temple and leaned his elbow against the table. "Great. Just... fucking great."

"What kind of things, Cas?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean could feel Cas' eyes on him, searing a hole into his skin. He was afraid to know what Cas had learned from that bitch Meg, not wanting him to experience the guilt for all the things he had done. Sam's Wall. Killing all those people. Cas was better off not knowing. Dean closed his eyes tightly and braced himself against the sound of Cas exhaling hard, knowing that he was seconds away from revealing what he had discovered.

"That I'm... an angel."

Dean blew out a hard breath, felt his stomach tighten with anxiety. "Fuck."

As always, Sam took control of the conversation with an ease that Dean really appreciated right now. "What else, Cas?"

"I—I don't know. Everything's in pieces."

"Think, Cas," Dean growled out, angrier than he had intended.

"Her plans to control the Leviathan by using me—"

"Oh, this keeps getting better and better."

"Dean."

Dean tightened his jaw and went quiet again.

"How?" Sam asked.

"Possession."

As if it had hurt to even hear it, Dean leaned forward, pressing his face into his hands. "Wait, wait." He raised his head to stare at Cas. "So you're telling me that we basically served you up on a silver platter for her? For fuck's sake!"

In anger, Dean launched himself out of his seat and began to pace. One step, two.

"Yeah, but, Dean, it didn't happen that way."

Dean stopped, turning to look at his brother. "Yeah, luckily. Thanks for freaking out."

Sam frowned. "You know, Dean. You can stop being a dick at any time."

"These near misses are pissing me off, Sam!"

"And there's nothing we can do about it, okay? We'll deal. Isn't that what you told me? We got this."

Dean let out a frustrated sigh and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Right?"

"Yeah," Dean conceded, sitting back down at the table.

Sam looked back at Cas. "Is there anything else? Any other detail? Like... how you can control—"

Cas shook his head. "No. All of it was hearsay, rumors. The origin of the information..." The angel trailed off, closing his eyes. His face contorted with a wince, like he was going through pain trying to remember. Dean felt a pang of concern. "...isn't very clear. Somehow, another demon named Crowley was involved."

"Super. Real fucking super," Dean growled. "So, what? Meg and Crowley hoped to control Dick for some good 'ol world domination?"

Sam leaned back in his seat, taking it all in. "Seems likely."

"I don't know. The details are... vague."

"You shoulda killed that son of a bitch when you had the chance," Dean directed toward Cas.

The angel frowned in confusion.

Sam sighed. "Well... the plot thickens."

"So tired of this bullshit," Dean spat out venomously.

The silence crowded them, filling up the space with a heaviness that none of them could shake. Full of possibilities, doubts and fears that they'd rather keep secret. Same old shit, different day, Dean thought, growing weary of the future looking so goddamn dark.

"What are we gonna do?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "Well. First things first. We gotta prevent any demon from getting a hold of Cas again."

"Tattoo?"

Dean nodded. "Yep. So, while we're doing that—"

"I'll do what I do best..."

Together, the brothers chimed in. "Research."

With the game plan decided on, Dean stood up while Sam grabbed the laptop and slid it over to himself. Cas sat in his chair, tense, and looked to Dean for direction.

"Come on, Cas. You're getting inked."

The angel stood up to follow dutifully.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"We're gonna use your toothbrush."

"What?" Sam caught on. "No. Use your own."

"Nope," Dean disagreed, swiping the pen off the kitchen table.

"Dick," Sam muttered beneath his breath.

Dean chuckled, turning to Cas. "Go wait for me in the bedroom."

"About time you two shacked up," Sam muttered teasingly, tapping on his laptop.

"Fuck off," Dean snipped. Oh, if his brother only knew how close to the truth he really was.

While Cas headed toward the bedroom, Dean went about collecting the things he'd need for the makeshift tattoo gun. In the kitchen, he grabbed the sewing kit and masking tape from one of the drawers and stole the nine-volt batteries from the clock and smoke detector. Dean took extra pleasure out of swiping Sam's toothbrush for the project and cracked open the DVD player in the living room for the small motor he'd need. After about fifteen minutes and a lot of ingenuity, Dean had made himself a homemade tattoo gun that would work well enough for the job.

When Dean went into the bedroom, Cas was spread out on the mattress, looking at him expectantly. He could never get over how those blue eyes seemed to penetrate his skin and burn a hole straight through his soul. Like he was looking for something that even Dean couldn't find; decency, something worth saving. If Cas only knew when to give up, maybe they'd both be better off.

Dean blew a shaky breath and grabbed the chair, setting it down close enough to the bed. He sat down and starting preparing, knowing all too well that Cas was staring at him still. He ignored it as best he could, pouring the ink into a little cap before taking up the other pen he'd use to draw the tattoo on Cas' skin. When Dean finally looked at Cas, he was met with gorgeous blue eyes again. His serene face, the way Cas looked at him like he was the only person in his entire world—it made Dean feel impossibly small.

"Cas."

"Yes, Dean?"

"You need to—uhh..." Dean cleared his throat. "You need to take off your shirt."

Cas nodded and sat up, lifting the thin t-shirt—Dean's shirt—up and over his head. The angel set it aside gently, as if that too were precious, and laid back down, assuming his staring. Dean couldn't help but trace the lines of his body with his eyes. All that lean muscle, that soft skin. Dean could feel the heat rise in his face, the strong beat of his heart thumping faster. For an angel, Cas looked... amazing. He was thin yet well-toned. Dean could tell that an immense amount of power hummed quietly just beneath his skin, the physical kind that could be unleashed in a moment's notice. Though Cas couldn't remember, Dean knew that the angel had that graceful lethality and it was that allure, that brutality wrapped up in innocence, that nearly stunned Dean into silence on occasion.

Dean blinked, caught himself staring, and spared Cas a sheepish look. Cas soothed him with the tiny quirk of a smile, barely there at the corner of his lips. The type of sly look that the cat often gave the canary before it struck. Snapping out of it, Dean licked his lips and leaned closer, free-handing the anti-possession tattoo on his chest. He quickly discovered that he couldn't concentrate with Cas staring at him like he was, putting together his shattered pieces with his eyes. With a sharp exhale through the nose, Dean stopped what he was doing.

"Cas."

With that one word, the angel knew what he was doing wrong. Cas looked away from him, staring at the ceiling, as Dean shifted a little closer and continued to draw the tattoo, just like the one he and Sam had. It didn't take long for Cas to look at him again, drawn to his face like some sort of twisted moth to a flame. By the time Dean finished, he felt a little more undressed, taken apart by Cas' close scrutiny. What sort of things Cas learned, Dean would never know.

Dean leaned back to take a look at his handiwork. The messy drawn lines of the anti-possession would have to do for now. They were more than enough to use as a guideline, a map that Dean would perfect as he was doing the actual work. With a shallow nod, Dean looked at Cas, meeting those blue eyes head-on. "You ready?"

Cas nodded.

With a careful hand, Dean took up the tattoo gun and turned it on. It buzzed to life and the needle moved up and down at a moderate pace, efficient enough to get the job done. A job that would end up shitty if Cas kept staring at him like that.

Without a word, Dean gently grabbed Cas' face and turned it away from him, making the angel stare off in the opposite direction. Cas stayed like that, thankfully, even as Dean inched closer, putting needle to skin. Cas didn't even flinch or hiss out in pain. Instead, he was as stoic as ever, lying as still as a statue made out of marble. The angel's skin was soft beneath his hand, shuddering in response ever so often when Dean wiped the excess ink away with a damp rag. With Cas this close, half-way stripped bare beneath him, it didn't take long for Dean's mind to wander.

Like a well-oiled machine, his tattooing hand went on auto-pilot while his dick and brain took over. Dean thought about that night against the Impala, the way Cas' body begged for him. The memory of the sweet noises the angel had made kicked his heart into high gear, tattooing hurried notes against his ribs. Dean couldn't help but notice how toned and firm Cas' stomach was, the way the skin disappeared beyond the hem of loose jeans. Dean recognized those jeans because they were _his_. They were too big for him, the spur of his angular hipbones peeking out for the entire world to see. _God_, how he wanted to worship at the altar of those hips, kissing them, licking them, whatever he wanted.

Dean swallowed down another lump in his throat. When he finally paid attention, he noticed that he hadn't fucked up the tattoo yet, but at the rate he was going, now distracted by Cas' hard-on—it was only a matter of goddamn time. Fuck. It took all of Dean's willpower to resist sending a hand down Cas' pants, gripping his dick and rubbing it until the angel moaned his name. Or, hell, even ripping off his jeans and giving him the best damn blow job he'd ever have. But this wasn't Cas, the Cas who remembered everything. The Cas who could accurately decide if he wanted that from Dean—wanted whatever _this_ it was. Even Dean couldn't accurately describe what they had. Was it something deeper than friendship? Even love? Dean couldn't put a label on it. Not in a million years. Didn't want to. Whatever it was, it meant something.

Dean tried to will his mind elsewhere, away from sex, away from taking Cas' right to _choice_, and kept to the task at hand. Another smooth line tattooed into perfect skin, another swipe of the damp towel. Just to _feel_ him, just to see his reaction, Dean brushed a thumb over his nipple, cleverly disguising it with the wipe of the towel. Cas issued a quiet 'mm' and sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as if he were trying to keep himself in check. The way he seemed to struggle with keeping it together, _need_ burning just beneath his skin, was the hottest fucking thing in a long goddamn time.

Just to be an asshole, to make Cas suffer as much as he was, Dean did it again. The flicker of a thumb against that hard nub sent Cas' hips wriggling, making the angel sigh as a result. That sound was full of desperation, on the very edge of a lustful groan. If his own dick wasn't hard enough, pressing painfully against the zipper of his jeans, it was now.

In between tattooing another line and filling it in with black, Dean stole a glance at Cas' hips again. He knew he could spend hours there, exploring the skin and lavishing them with affection. What caught his attention wasn't the way those hipbones called to him, begging to be touched. It was the fact that Dean could see the head of Cas' cock poking out from beneath the hem of his boxers—Dean's boxers—flushed in all of its glory. A shot of adrenaline coursed through Dean's veins, making his head dizzy and his ears pulse. He couldn't help but look at it again, finding his tattooing duty more than just annoying. It was an inconvenience, distracting him from staring at Cas' dick. When Dean touched him again, it leapt, precome drawing a line from the tip to his stomach. He needed this to be over with before he found himself knee-deep in trouble and neck-deep in guilt.

Finally, the grueling procedure came to an end. With the tattoo surprisingly near-perfect, Dean shut off the gun. The cessation of buzzing acted like a gunshot at a dog race, releasing the near-feral angel from his imprisonment on the bed. Cas leapt up and tore the tattoo gun away from him, throwing it haphazardly aside, before straddling across his lap. Dean didn't have a choice but to accept the rush of lips against his own, his hands sliding over Cas' hot skin. Fuck, he wanted this so badly. Cas all over him, grinding into his lap like his fucking life depended on it. Right now, Dean wanted this over anything else in the world.

Dean kissed him hard, never getting over how much he loved Cas' lips. Full and needy, they were all over his mouth, desperately clinging while the angel wiggled his hips. Dean decided that the friction between their bodies wasn't enough, that he needed more, _now_. With rough hands, he grabbed a hold of Cas' hips and pressed them down, harder against his lap. It increased the pressure tenfold and made them both groan, the sounds trapped between their lips. Dean wanted this to go on forever; the incessant grinding, the kissing, the moaning. He wanted to be fucked into oblivion, right here, right now, and wouldn't let anything stop it. Not demons, the end of the world. Nothing.

Cas reached down to unbutton his own jeans, allowing the opportunity for Dean to grab his dick, hips, whatever. Dean settled for sending his hands down the back of his pants, palming and gripping his ass hard. He followed the motion of Cas' hips, using his hands to pull him forward even harder. The heat between their bodies, the pressure; it was all too incredible, almost overwhelming. But Dean didn't stop there. He wanted more, teasing temptation and indecency a little more just because he _could_.

Dean reached further in with his hands on Cas' ass, teasing his hole with his middle finger. This sent Cas into a near-frenzy, making him shoot out a gasp that was so needy, so desperate that Dean should have come right then and there. Cas sent fingers into his hair and pulled back, meeting his mouth with the most passionate kiss Dean had ever experienced. Dean groaned into it, fully surrendering, and was taken aback by how desperately Cas rubbed against him. The motion of his hips, his laborious breathing, was indicative of how _close_ Cas was to coming. Dean knew then that this had gone too far, that he needed to stop this.

Dean broke the kiss but was lured right back in again, sucking at his neck for a brief moment before heading farther down. There, at the newly-finished tattoo, Dean licked the fragile skin and sucked the nipple, making Cas take in air with a hurried gasp. Dean could feel his own orgasm _right there_ and the sudden urgency to end this screamed inside his head. It was agonizing to push at Cas' hips, trying to make him stop. When Cas refused, growling low in his throat, Dean captured his lips into another heated kiss, biting down on his lip. The notion that Cas was disobeying him, that the angel was _fighting_ for it, nearly sent Dean over the edge.

"Stopstopstopstop," Dean whispered against his lips.

Cas clung to him and kissed him hard again. "_Please_."

"No, Cas," Dean groaned, "We can't do this."

"Dean—"

"I said 'no'!" Dean growled, pushing his hips back harder. When Cas whimpered against him, not moving fast enough, Dean stood up and threw him back angrily, maybe a little too hard. The angel fell back against the bed, splayed, hair wild and eyes shot wide with lust. Cas stared at him before collapsing back in a frustrated heap.

Dean leaned against the chair raggedly, breathing hard into the air. "Fuck, Cas. I can't _do_ this, don't you understand?"

The angel said nothing, chest rising and falling quickly with the each breath. The temptation was there in the outline of Cas' jeans, dick as hard as a rock with no signs of going down. Dean had to get out of there before he fucked everything up. _Again_.

Hurriedly, Dean turned and flew out of the room, slamming the door closed behind him. He met Sam's hard stare with one of his own, glaring at his brother just because he was there and he _could_. Frustrated was beyond what he was feeling right now. Dean headed for the kitchen sink and turned the faucet on, splashing cold water on his face. He must have stood there for a long time, waiting for his hard-on to die down, for his thoughts to get rid of Cas altogether. For fuck's sake, that was close. Dean felt it in the way his blood pumped through his body, the way his heart yearned for the angel he had just left behind.

Once Dean had gathered his composure, he settled down at the dinette table where Sam continued to research. Dean picked up a book and pretended to bury his nose into it, just to keep himself occupied. He could feel his brother's stare and, when he looked up, Sam's expression was a little more accusatory than usual.

"What?" Dean snapped.

"What was that about?"

"Nothing," Dean said harshly.

"Dean—"

"I said 'nothing'," Dean growled out.

Sam sighed and turned back to his book, mumbling. "... so much for trust issues."

Dean glared at him. "Somethin' you wanna say to me, Sam?"

Sam snapped his book closed. "Yeah, actually." He glared at him. "You and Cas?"

He could have died right there. Sam must have seen them. His mind came up with all of these excuses in a jumble of lies or insults. In the end, he hid his embarrassment in hostility. "Me and Cas _what_?"

Sam clenched his jaw. "I saw you—"

"You saw _what?_" Dean asked challengingly, daring him to open his mouth.

Sam started to say something, must have thought better of it, and closed his mouth. Instead, he just stared at him.

"Mention it again and see what happens," Dean warned.

"Dean—"

"Sam," Dean started, tone grave. "I will break your face, I swear to God."

Sam narrowed his eyes slightly, clenched his jaw again and looked away. He opened his book again and let the issue die. That was all Dean needed right now; his little brother knowing that he and Cas—well. It was a lot more than just _him and Cas_ at this point. It was the fact that Dean may be a little gay, whether it was just for Cas or—

Cas came into the kitchen, looking straight at him with a little more than lustful heat. There was anger there, or frustration, and it manifested itself in the way that he said, "Dean."

Dean glared at him, sending a silent signal that he didn't want to talk under no circumstances. Cas announced his understanding with a loud sigh and turned toward the back door, opening it without a word and walking out into the cold air. Sam watched him go and stood up. For whatever reason, Dean had a feeling that his brother would want to come to Cas' aid.

"Sam," Dean said again in that warning tone. "Sit down."

Sam shot him a frown and reluctantly did as he was told, sitting back down in his chair. The tension between them mounted as the silence grew. Dean stewed in his anger, his frustrations, _everything_, without another word.

:::

The cold, crisp air did nothing to cool his heated skin, nothing to soothe his frazzled nerves. Castiel stood there on the back porch, consumed in his frustrations and the guilt of tempting Dean. He admonished himself for being so foolish, so greedy, and prayed that his actions hadn't damaged the already-fragile relationship that he and Dean had. If so, even if he had tarnished it a little bit, Castiel was committed to spending a lifetime redeeming himself.

The chill of the air sent a shiver up his spine. The winter night was cold, yes, but that didn't explain the way his blood suddenly ran cold. A pervasive darkness, a presence of unnatural evil, prickled his skin and made him alert. Something—or someone—had joined him. Castiel was certain of it.

There, ahead of him in the shadows, something moved. It came closer with a steady gait, the cocky swagger belonging to a human. A man, Castiel could see, in a black suit and tie, wearing a sly smile on his face. Brown hair and eyes, perhaps. An ego that could devour the entire world.

The man stayed in the darkness at the bottom of the porch's steps. Even there, Castiel could see the man's smile grow wide. This person, whoever he was, knew him. Conveniently, Castiel couldn't remember _him_. He didn't need to remember this person to know that he was _evil_.

"Ah, Castiel. Back from the watery grave. Have a nice swim?"

Castiel frowned.

"What? Don't you remember little 'ol me? Your old pal?"

Castiel started to open his mouth to say something, but was cut off.

"What a shame. We were close; you and I. Just the two of us; in the thick of it. Real deep. Us against them... until you stabbed me in the back. Betrayed me for all those souls."

Souls. Castiel searched his damaged memory and grasped at whatever he could remember. The only thing that came back to him, from Meg's memories, was a single name. This must be—

"Crowley, isn't it?" Castiel assumed.

Crowley began a slow clap, the sounds quiet enough so they wouldn't disturb anyone still in the house. "I'm impressed. Even with a few bats in the belfry, you're still as sharp as ever."

"What do you want? I'm not supposed to speak to you."

"Says who? Your bunkmate? The Giraffe?"

"Her thoughts, memories—" Castiel began.

"Ah, yes, the whore." Crowley chuckled. "Finally got rid of that one. Thanks for that, by the way. You and your pets did a number on her. Took care of the dirty work for me."

Castiel frowned again.

"I knew she'd take the bait. Can't resist the temptation of power, that one. Led her right into the trap that got her killed. Good riddance, I say."

"I don't understand," Castiel admitted.

"Let me spell it out for you, Cas: I lied. Well, rather, I planted a few seeds in the grapevine. Everything else..." Crowley held out his hands and shrugged. "...took care of itself."

"And controlling the Leviathan?"

"Don't be stupid, angel. That was a fabrication. Part of the lie. There's no way to control a creature as old as God Himself. Which is why I'm here, to be frank."

Castiel said nothing.

"I have a little problem that only _you_ can help me with. Fancy a deal?" Crowley oozed.

"No—"

"Come on, Cas. I'll make it worth your while," Crowley offered charmingly.

"I shouldn't be talking to you."

Castiel turned his back on him. Before he could go inside—

"If you help me, I'll fix Gigantor's cracked melon."

That struck a chord in Castiel, making him halt his retreat. The offer was... tempting. Sam Winchester was in so much pain. Castiel could hear him at night, crying out beneath the torture of another nightmare. Fixing Sam was what Dean would want. Crowley echoed that same sentiment.

"That i_s_ what you want, isn't it? Or, should I say, what _Dean_ wants. You were always so keen on _his_ needs. How's that going, by the way? You and that dim-witted ape? Taken a trip up the jacksie yet?"

Castiel growled, throwing a glare over his shoulder. "That is none of your concern."

"Right. I'll take that as a 'no'. Pity."

Castiel sighed, willing to hear him out. "What do I have to do?"

"Simple. Kill Dick Roman."

"How?"

"I hear there's a book that has the answers to all of life's riddles," Crowley revealed. "So. Do we have a deal? One broken head for one dead dick?"

Something in the back of Castiel's head begged him to refuse the deal. That this man, whoever he was, embodied an evil that he couldn't quite place. Out of principle, to placate the nagging in his head, he said, "No."

"Cas, you're being rather difficult, mate." Crowley said, still as cool as ever. "Need I remind you, since you're so prone to forget, that you're responsible for Sam's... _condition_."

Castiel frowned and looked at Sam through the glass. Was it true? Did he hurt Sam?

"How?"

"Let's not go into details, Castiel. Let bygones be bygones. Ask the Moose yourself. Or, better yet, ask Dean. Bet he'd love to reminisce."

Castiel was responsible for this, then. This... felt right. Though he couldn't remember anything, what he had said or done, this explanation felt right. It was up to him to fix this, to make everything right. No matter what the cost. Still, he had to be sure. "You can fix him?"

"Of course, I can. I'm the King of Hell."

Castiel shot a look over his shoulder. "The Devil?"

"Flattering, but no. God's favorite choir boy is riding the Giant's noggin."

With a resigned sigh, after looking at the boys through the window once more, Castiel whispered, "Then, yes, we have a deal."

"Ah, music to my ears. There's just one little detail."

Castiel exhaled a chilly phantom ghost in frustration and turned. "What?"

Crowley was there, too close, and pressed their lips together. Castiel growled low in his throat and pushed him away, wiping his mouth, while sudden anger boiled his blood.

"There. Right as rain," Crowley smiled cheekily.

Castiel seethed.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Cas," Crowley said, turning away. "Oh, one more thing."

Castiel sighed frustratedly.

"Remember that I top in this relationship," Crowley turned back half-way to grin. "Don't worry. I'll be gentle." An afterthought. "Ah, and do us both a favor; don't tell Dean about our little arrangement this time. He's the jealous type. Kisses."

With that, the vile man left Castiel there, in the dark, with nothing more than his thoughts. Castiel didn't have enough time to process anything before the back door opened. Dean stepped out onto the back porch, looking around, before his eyes found Castiel.

"Who are you talking to out here, Cas?"

In that moment, Castiel contemplated telling Dean everything; about Crowley, the deal, the fact that he was committed to fixing Sam. That he was incredibly sorry for hurting his brother. In the end, Castiel smiled at him, spread his hands out at his sides and said, "No one."

Dean stared at him for a long time. Castiel felt as if he were being picked apart on the spot. His face heated up and he considered blurting everything out beneath that careful scrutiny. But, just as he was about to reveal everything, Dean smiled and nodded. "Come inside. It's cold out here."

Under Dean's careful guidance, gentle fingers around Castiel's arm, they both moved toward the door to go inside. When doubt began to eat away at him, Castiel prayed that he had made the right choice in dealing with the King of Hell.


	6. Chapter 6

"History has a habit of repeating itself, Sam. Some things are just meant to be."

Dean's words struck a chord in Castiel, reverberating throughout his body in an echo of subdued familiarity. The words held a double meaning, a significance, Castiel felt, but he couldn't pinpoint why. Confusion clouded his mind, his memories nebulous and out of reach. As the Impala raced down the road, Castiel couldn't quite shake off the chill in his bones or the hollowness in his chest. A shudder of phantom dread slithered down his spine.

"Dude, you're talking about _food_," Sam shot back.

The wintery scene passed by beyond his window. White trees blended with the washed-out gray sky, leaving everything cold and lifeless. It was as if his Father had forgotten to add color to the world, robbing humanity of hope and a meaningful future. In contrast to the gloomy day, Dean let loose an 'mm' of satisfaction, taking a bite out of his hamburger. The way Dean seemed so animated, smacking his lips noisily, broadcasted how happy he was. Here, in his favorite car, accompanied by his favorite person, Sam, and his food, Dean appeared to be in good spirits. And it was that happiness, that pure joy, that helped him fight back the growing guilt and fear in his heart.

"Let's face it, man. This burger and I... match made in friggin' Heaven. It's still probably the best damn thing I've ever ate. Too bad 'history' is what happens afterward. Whew."

"Gross, Dean," Sam groaned.

"Back me up here, Cas. Best burger you've ever had, right?"

Castiel was too preoccupied to answer, thinking back to the previous night. Ever since he had taken the deal, a sense of foreboding had begun to loom just beyond his comprehension. It had come with a pang of guilt, a subconscious voice in the back of his head that told him this was all wrong. That, somehow, history was about to repeat itself. Had he, in fact, done wrong? Even after hours of deliberating, he hadn't found his answer. Making a deal with the King of Hell to fix Sam felt right. Sacrificing whatever he needed to in order to _save him_ felt necessary. If this were absolutely true, then why did he have this pervasive feeling that he had done something terribly wrong? That—

"Earth to Cas."

—this, this _niggling inside his head_, was just the calm before the storm? All of it was confusing to Castiel. _Everything._ The deal itself, the claim that he alone could stop Dick Roman—

He felt a touch on his knee.

"Cas?"

Castiel turned his head to look at the younger Winchester boy, Sam. He didn't even think before he asked, "What book has the answers to all of life's riddles?"

Sam's face contorted with a confused frown.

"Uhh—" Dean paused a moment and then blurted out, "The Britannica!"

Sam shot his brother a look. "Seriously, Dean?"

"What?"

"That's out of print."

Castiel waited patiently.

Dean scoffed, seeming a touch offended by his brother's correction. "Why do you need a book, anyhow Cas? There's a little thing called the Internet, you know. Books are outdated."

"Books are _not_ outdated."

"Whatever."

"Boys," Castiel gently cut in.

Sam looked back at him. Castiel exhaled softly through his nose and turned to look out the window again. Dean's answer didn't feel right. "It's not… the Internet."

"Do you mean… the Bible?"

Castiel thought for a moment before turning to look at Sam. A vague sense of familiarity had blossomed. "Yes. That sounds... right."

The expression that Sam wore teetered on heartbreak, as if he had just realized how broken Castiel truly was. "Sure, Cas. We have one back at the cabin. Is there any particular reason—"

"No," he answered quickly, turning to look out the window again.

"Okay," Sam said defeatedly.

Castiel didn't dare let his intentions slip. Questions would be asked; a chance he couldn't risk. If his presumptions were correct, if his conscience and sixth sense were guiding him accurately, neither of the boys would appreciate the truth. It would be the beginning of the end. An end without Dean; a thought he couldn't even bear to entertain. A thought darker than the bowels of Hell itself.

The car ride to the cabin continued in relative silence. When the Impala pulled into the driveway, Sam was the first to get out of the car and close the door behind him. Castiel followed suit, albeit slowly, preoccupied by the way Dean lingered in the driver's seat. Outside, Castiel watched him through the front window as Dean stroked the steering wheel. It was an affectionate gesture, something that Castiel longed to experience, and demonstrated how much Dean cared for this car, this '_baby_'. He missed her, Castiel could tell that much, and it was obvious in the way he looked at her. It was as if the Impala, his '_girl_', was a part of him. Castiel wondered if this was how Dean showed his love. If so, then he wanted Dean to love him too. It was simple. Beautiful. Intrinsically different than his _lust_, an insatiable _hunger _that made Castiel _ache_.

Even looking at Dean made Castiel's breath freeze in his chest. Nearly overwhelmed by how much he needed Dean right then, Castiel turned away and looked up at the sky. He drew in a deep, cleansing breath. The clarity it brought with it, the smell of pine—it was refreshing, untangling his muddled thoughts and leaving him somewhat energized. As the snow began to fall in thick flakes, Castiel closed his eyes, reveling in the pleasant experience of each one kissing his face. To bask in God's creations like this, quietly and undisturbed, was a rarity that he cherished. He felt closer to the Father he'd never have the chance to meet.

The Impala's door opened and closed with a creak, signifying that Dean had parted ways with his beloved car. He didn't make a sound. Castiel could tell, without looking, that Dean was staring. Castiel could feel that connection, the buzz in his core that he always felt when he and Dean were near each other. Like a lightning storm, it was a profound energy, dancing just beneath their skin before igniting and leaving them breathless.

"Dude, look," he heard Dean say to his brother in quiet tones, "A snow angel."

Sam snorted. "You are so goddamn corny."

"What? I'm in a good mood," Dean shot back.

Castiel opened his eyes to catch Sam taking the porch stairs, two at a time.

"You should try it on for size!" Dean called after him.

It was Castiel's turn to stare, to contemplate how beautiful Dean was. With the blanket of snow surrounding him, Dean was striking in contrast to the purity of winter. His skin seemed so delicate, a flawlessness drunk with the color of the sun. His eyes were spring meadows, darting away almost shyly as he walked closer. Here, in his presence, Castiel couldn't find the will to breathe. Dean's warmth called to him and all Castiel wanted, _needed_, was to hide inside those strong arms until the guilt washed away. Here, Castiel wanted to tell Dean everything. Here, Castiel found himself the most afraid. Disappointing Dean would be worse than death itself.

Dean looked at the cabin and then back, moving closer to spare a gentle touch at his arm. Instinctively, Castiel gravitated toward it, taking a step closer without even thinking.

"You okay?" Dean asked quietly.

_No. I need your help, Dean._

"Yes. I'm fine."

Dean accepted the lie with a tiny smile, turning as if planning to go inside. Panicked, feeling naked without his touch, Castiel grabbed his arm. "Dean?"

Dean stopped and looked at him quizzically. "Yeah, Cas?"

_Forgive me. For everything._

Right then, Castiel wanted nothing more than to blurt out the truth. To look at Dean like this, knowing he was oblivious to deceit, wracked Castiel with more guilt than he had ever known. Fear kept him prisoner. The fear of losing Dean, of losing his Heaven on Earth, kept him shackled to secrecy.

Dean looked at him expectantly. "Cas?"

His body shivered with a chill—from the cold weather or nervousness, he didn't quite know. He couldn't find the words that would free him from his lies. Instead of talking, instead of explaining away his choices, Castiel acted, leaning forward to try and kiss him. Dean reacted negatively, nearly jumping back to get away. It hurt more than the sear of hot fire.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean said, keeping him at arm's length. "What are you doing?"

How was that not obvious? Castiel frowned in confusion.

Dean looked toward the cabin. Castiel followed his gaze, noting that Sam was nowhere to be seen.

"Look, we can't do this where Sam could easily see us, okay? I don't need him asking any more questions than he already has."

Castiel sharply angled his chin away and looked down to combat the hurt of rejection. Dean was there with another comforting touch on the arm. "Okay?"

"Yes."

"Okay," Dean said, squeezing his shoulder affectionately. "Let's go inside before we freeze our nuts off."

Dutifully, Castiel followed behind as Dean trudged up the porch steps. If only this could have been much simpler. He desperately tried to keep the self-doubt away, shield himself from spiraling out of control. Comfort came when they stepped inside the cabin, the warm air soothing his cold skin, his wounded heart and mind. Sam was at the dinette table once again, clicking away at the computer. As Dean stomped the snow from his boots, Castiel could sense an edge of irritation about him.

"Sam," Dean's tone confirmed it. "What are you doing?"

Sam looked at his brother questioningly. "Uh... going back to work?"

"Dude, we pulled an all-nighter. Time for some R & R."

"Dick Roman—"

"Screw Dick, okay? We're running ourselves into a wall here. Have we found out anything new in the last twelve hours?"

"No," Sam admitted.

"Okay, then. Let's watch a movie or something."

Sam sighed. "We should really get back—"

"Sam."

"Fine," Sam said, rolling his eyes.

Dean pointed at him. "That's the spirit. Pick the movie. No chick flicks."

"Dude, I don't _always_ pick the chick flicks."

"Bullshit," Dean countered, moving off toward the kitchen.

Sam rose from his chair and moved toward the television. Halfway there, Castiel intercepted him. "Sam."

The younger Winchester looked at him and nodded, seeming to remember. "Right." With that, he rummaged around the coffee table, looking under papers and other books piled high. "I thought I saw it earlier—yeah, here it is." Sam turned and handed it to him.

Castiel took it gingerly in his hands. It was small, bound in leather, and incredibly fragile. Its age could be seen in the character of the leather, worn in some places due to heavy use. Castiel wondered what this little book had seen in its long life, what memories marked its pages. Running a finger over the leather, Castiel swore he could actually feel the wisdom contained in its delicate pages. These were His Father's words. Stories and _history_ beyond what he could remember. _This_ was as close as he would ever get to meeting his Father. And it left him with a pronounced longing, an emptiness that he couldn't quite shrug off.

Without a word, Castiel offered what little he could of a smile. He turned away and moved toward the bedroom, stopping when Sam asked, "You're not gonna stick around to watch a movie with us?"

Castiel turned his head, but dropped his eyes, avoiding eye contact with the younger Winchester boy. He said nothing. His answer was clear.

"Cas? Are you okay?"

In response, he leveled Sam with an expression that rode the fence between stoicism and sadness. Castiel wanted to reach out to him, tell him everything, beg for advice, but didn't. Instead, he nodded and stepped into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. There he was, in the empty room, with nothing more than his own troubling thoughts. Thoughts of Dean refusing to forgive him, even despising him. Even now, after growing together, Dean still touched him with some reservation as if he were afraid of getting close. As if he still didn't quite trust him yet.

Castiel sighed and sat on the bed. The peace he felt while handling his Father's work was a needed change from the tumultuous ebb and flow of his emotions—erratic as if _feeling anything at all_ was new practice. The leather felt smooth beneath his fingers. Somehow, with it in his hands, Castiel felt closer to Heaven.

"Please, give me guidance."

Bowing his head, Castiel closed his eyes and tried to shelve his doubts and the lingering tremor of his guilt. He reached back within the blackness of his mind and concentrated on a single point. With it, he had hoped to slip into a place beyond himself, to find control and absolute tranquility. What he sought was a meditative state. What he found was the just opposite. More doubt, more fear. A level of anxiety he hadn't experienced before.

Frustrated, Castiel shot out a sharp sigh, trying to relax his tight muscles. Instead of focusing on pure blackness, he thought of Dean. His smile, how happy he was while driving his beloved car. The way Dean looked at him. The tension seemed to melt away, flowing out of his body like a river. The way Dean felt against him, his warmth, his soft skin—

Castiel cleared his throat and opened his eyes, flipping to a random page in the Bible. He threw away the hope of turning to anything of importance, a result of having been divinely guided. Looking down, Castiel stared at Job 41 and began reading. He couldn't hide his surprise. Here, the Bible talked about the Leviathan in detail, depicting the creature in all its glory. Its fierce power, lethality, how no one being had any hope of overcoming him. This Leviathan, this Dick Roman, was all but invincible. Scales like shields, heart as stone, normal weapons—useless. The only entity that could destroy it was—

"Father," Castiel whispered.

Hungry for more knowledge, Castiel closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, mentally reaching out to his Father in silent prayer. He needed more guidance and needed it now. Time was of the essence.

Flipping to another part of his Father's word, Castiel was led to the book of Isaiah, chapter twenty-seven. Reading the first verse—

_In that day the LORD with his sore and great and strong sword shall punish leviathan the piercing serpent, even leviathan that crooked serpent; and he shall slay the dragon that is in the sea._

—confirmed that only the Lord could kill the creature Leviathan and would, at the end of days, destroy it with a sword. This revelation only left Castiel with more questions. If, as Crowley said, Castiel was the only one who could help him, then… was he supposed to find God, his Father? It was the only plausible answer. Then, if so, how does a forgotten angel find a Father he has never seen?

The spiral of questions left him confused and it was that lack of knowledge that ignited his irritation. If only he could remember—

Just then, there was a knock at the door. Dean peeked his head in and looked at him before dropping his eyes to the Bible in his lap. "Hey, Cas?"

Castiel's heart began to thunder in his chest, just as it always did when he saw Dean. In that second, Castiel had forgotten his mission, trading in its memory for a few moments of Dean's beauty.

"You—uhh... you still doing your 'God time'?"

Castiel didn't respond, looking down at his Father's book and fingering the fragile pages. When he looked up, Dean had clenched his jaw, following through with a small nod and the lick of lips. A small tremble of _need_ reminded Castiel that he was entirely too human.

"Sam and I…" Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "We're gonna—if you want to—"

"Dean."

Dean bristled.

"I should return to my 'God time'," and it was a natural instinct to quote with fingers.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, sure, Cas. I'll—uh. I'll leave you to it."

The soft click of the door left him alone in the room again. Castiel didn't have time to return to his reading before Dean rushed right back in, closing the space between them. Not hesitating, Castiel leapt up, tossing the Bible aside, and met him halfway. They pulled each other into a deep kiss, hands struggling to find purchase against warm skin. Dean grabbed his face and Castiel moaned with it, licking his way into Dean's mouth. Like this, in Dean's arms, Castiel couldn't have felt more _safe_. His body heat, the way he smelled—a mixture of car oil, an intangible earthiness and _danger_—was the perfect antidote to Castiel's guilt. Nothing could have prepared Castiel for how _needed_ he felt beneath Dean's touch, how _overwhelmed_ he became beneath Dean's affections. Nothing could have prepared him at all for how much Castiel _loved_ him.

Dean grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him in even closer. Castiel let out a whimper of need as their bodies pressed together, the added closeness and warmth sending his urges into overdrive. Soon, Dean would stop this, Castiel knew. And it made him fill every precious second with touch and adoration because Dean deserved nothing less. With every ounce of his being, Castiel declared his love, made it evident in the way that he kissed him. Passionately, just on the edge of desperation. Their tongues slipped together, explored, _tasted_. Every second of it felt like Paradise.

Reality came when Dean stepped back, breaking their kiss as a result. Castiel couldn't bear to open his eyes, still stunned and overwhelmed, unable to move at all. Castiel knew, without looking, that Dean had left him behind, alone in the room. Without Dean's warmth, without that closeness, Castiel almost felt lost. Adrift in a sea of loneliness without a raft. Castiel finally opened his eyes and stared at the empty room. He could hear Dean in the living room now, bickering with Sam on which movie to watch next. The rest of the conversation drowned in his renewed sense of mission.

By the time he found himself on the bed again, his heart was still fluttering. Gingerly, Castiel picked up his Father's word, staring down at the book of Genesis, the account of his Father's Creation of the world and mankind. Castiel wondered of its significance in relation to the Leviathans, if he had been guided to this particular book or if it had been a fluke; a result of having tossed it haphazardly aside. It was then that he felt… a presence.

It wasn't his Father nor an angel. But something… lost and oddly familiar. Castiel remained still, trying to discern the nature of this entity. It was a ghost, Castiel surmised. A soul that had not yet crossed over. Castiel immediately thought of the boys' surrogate father, Bobby.

"Are you the boys' father?" Castiel asked the spirit aloud, not sure of its identity. No answer came. Castiel sighed. If it was the boys' father, Bobby, perhaps he'd be willing to help. With the Bible held in his open palms, Castiel whispered, "Help me find God."

Nothing happened. Just then, a gentle breeze came through the open window, touching his face with cold air. It brought with it an ounce of serenity; something Castiel sorely needed. But that wasn't all. Without warning, the pages flipped, leading him to the third chapter of the book of Genesis. After recovering from surprise, Castiel read the pages. Nothing in that chapter, nor in the ones before and after, pointed him closer to finding God. Castiel was missing something. That or he had been led astray. The end of third chapter depicted an angel guarding Eden with a flaming sword after the Fall of Mankind. God was nowhere to be found.

"I don't…" Castiel exhaled hard, frowning in confusion. "I don't understand. This doesn't describe how to find God. He's the only one who can help me."

Nothing. No answer. No divine intervention. Where did this leave him, then? Who or what else could given him the information he needed? Castiel couldn't answer his own questions before there was a knock at the door. When Castiel looked up, Sam was there at the doorway.

"Hey, Cas."

Castiel said nothing. Even seeing him coiled his gut with guilt.

"Who are you talking to in here?"

Castiel breathed a sigh through his nose, cutting his eyes down. "No one." His voice was too quiet, thoughts jumbled. He changed the subject. "Where is Dean?"

"Sleeping. Taking a nap. He's been having a hard time lately."

Castiel nodded.

"Hey."

Castiel raised his chin, but didn't look at him directly.

"Are you okay?"

Castiel frowned. "I wish you would stop asking me that, Sam." He inched his eyes up to catch Sam's frown. "I'm fine."

The younger Winchester boy came closer, occupying the space beside him on the bed. "Good, because you seem a little tense, man."

Castiel couldn't look at him directly. The guilt weighted his head down and gripped his chest tight. The pain he had caused Sam—Castiel had felt it, burning just beneath his skin when he had touched him a few days ago. The mental agony, the sleeplessness. It was because of him that Sam endured those nightmares, screamed at night and suffered during the day. If he could only—

"Hey. I know that look," Sam said. "It's the same one I see on Dean when he's hiding something. You kinda learned it from him, Cas."

Castiel lowered his eyes. "Sam," he began, throat dry. "What I did to you... your head—"

"Whoa, Cas. How... how do you know about that?"

Castiel didn't answer.

"Are you remembering—"

"Yes," he lied.

The long moment of silence made Castiel look up to find Sam staring at him. Castiel couldn't help but feel that younger Winchester boy could see right through him, trying to pick him apart and find all of his secrets. Eventually, Sam abandoned his scrutiny and sighed. "Yeah, about that..."

"I'm sorry, Sam," Castiel blurted out.

"Hey. It's... it's okay. I mean, there's nothing to forgive, right? Isn't that what you told me?"

"What I did was unforgivable. Your nightmares—"

"There's nothing that can be done about it now, Cas," Sam said firmly.

Castiel looked at him more closely, analyzing his response. The way he said it, his expression, betrayed that he was— "You're angry."

Sam swallowed hard, jaw stern, and tilted his head a little bit.

Castiel studied him quietly and said, "I deserve whatever it is you have to—"

"It just... fucking sucks, okay? You have no _idea_ what I have to live through on a daily basis."

Castiel remained quiet, watching him.

"The things he says, Cas. The stuff he _does_. I can't sleep. I can barely eat..." Sam took a deep breath. "I forgive you, but... goddamn it. I'm still in pain, Cas. And no apology, no matter how sincere, is going to change that." Sam looked down at his hands, pressing a thumb into his palm. "I'm _tired_."

Watching Sam go through this pain hurt Castiel. The boy teetered on the edge of exhaustion, nearly overwhelmed by his despair. "I am so sorry, Sam."

Sam nodded.

"I will fix this."

"Sure."

"I just have to kill Dick Roman," Castiel admitted off-handedly, picking up his Father's book again.

"Wait, what? What does he have to do with this?"

Distracted, Castiel muttered, "Crowley—" He froze.

"Dude, did you just say 'Crowley'?"

Castiel looked up at Sam, unable to move. Under Sam's hard glare, he was at a loss for words and his mind couldn't react quickly enough.

"Cas…" Sam warned.

Castiel wanted nothing more than to escape, but knew that he couldn't. He had to face this, had to stick hard to his choices. "I... I made a deal with Crowley—"

"You _what_?" Sam gawked.

Castiel lowered his eyes.

"For fuck's sake, Cas!" Sam growled, launching himself up from the bed. He paced once step, two, gripping his hair.

"He said he could fix you—"

"In exchange for what!"

"Killing Dick Roman," Castiel returned quickly.

"Cas, that's too fucking simple. How could you—" Sam growled. "How could you be so stupid? Crowley is a _demon_, Cas. The King of Hell. Why did you think it was a good idea?"

"I'm responsible for your condition!" Castiel hissed out, losing his patience.

"So what!" Sam shot back.

"I have to fix it. Dealing with him was the only option I had at the time—"

"Doesn't make it right!"

Castiel growled and shot up from the bed. "Sam! It's _done_! There's nothing we can do to stop this."

Sam ran a hand through his hair, calming down some. His tone softened. "What are we going to tell Dean?"

"Nothing."

"What? Do you expect—"

"To lie? Yes. For now."

Sam fixed him with a hard glare. "You _do_ realize this is the same bullshit that happened last time, right?"

Castiel clenched his jaw. The revelation was painful, but not surprising. This whole thing, the deal, the nagging fear in the back of his head—all of it felt too familiar. Sam only confirmed his suspicions.

"No. How could I," Castiel muttered frustratedly.

"Yeah, Cas. You've dealt with Crowley before. Lied about it. The effect it had on Dean…" Sam trailed off. "That's not the point. The point is... we can't just keep this from him." Sam leveled him with a look. "It'd kill him."

Castiel looked down and closed his eyes. Hurting Dean was the last thing he'd ever want to do. But— "As much as I would hate to upset him, Sam..."

"Come on, Cas!"

"Sam. _Listen_ to me," Castiel intoned firmly. "As much as I hate this—" He swallowed hard. "I need Dean to stay out of my way—"

"Cas!"

"—_just_ for a little while. Crowley has information I need and telling Dean _now_ would ruin everything."

"What information—"

"I need Dean out of the house."

"Cas," Sam warned.

"I need to speak to Crowley—"

"Dude, no. There's gotta be something else we can do. Research, anything—"

"Sam," Castiel said. "It's too late. This is the only way."

Sam ran his hands through his hair again, appearing frustrated and stressed.

"Please, Sam. Just... stand by me, help me with this one time."

Sam looked at him, pointing a finger at him to drive home his point. "When Dean finds out... It's going to kill him. He's going to..." Sam clenched his jaw. "He's not going want anything to do with you. Trust me on that."

Castiel raised his eyes slowly to meet Sam's. "It's a risk I'm willing to take."

Sam angled his face away and shook his head. "I don't know how long we're gonna be."

"I won't need a lot of time."

Sam nodded and turned for the door, shutting it behind him to leave Castiel alone in the room. Immediately, Castiel went about preparing the ritual; just another thing he had learned from the demon Meg. In the other room, he could hear Sam and Dean, mentioning the need for more alcohol. By the time the Impala growled down the road, Castiel had gathered a knife and a bowl, setting both on the nightstand. He grabbed the blade and slit his wrist, wincing as the pain shot up his arm. Castiel watched his own blood seep into the bowl, growing dizzy as time passed. He needed this ritual to work, to be able to contact the demons in Hell and speak with Crowley. He needed guidance and more information, and seeking it from the worst source made Castiel queasy.

After Castiel had recited the Latin words, the bowl of blood swirled and hissed. A pervasive sense of evil assaulted him and snaked down his spine. The connection was there, a dark link that attached itself to his subconscious. Other-worldly voices inside his head began to laugh, indicating that he had successfully dialed Hell.

"I need to speak to the King of Hell," Castiel said aloud.

The demons answered too quickly, in a language he couldn't quite understand. Not with his limited memory. The only words he had understood were 'not here'. Castiel sighed sharply. "Well, _find_ him. This is a matter of life and death—"

A noise behind him made Castiel whirl. There, at the opened window, stood Crowley, his expression smug. Castiel almost wondered how Crowley could have known or could have traveled here so quickly. Unless he was here all along—

"Cas, Cas, Cas... I'm a busy man—"

"I need answers."

"I told you where to find them, angel," Crowley oozed.

"That wasn't good enough. I need to find my Father."

Crowley chuckled. "Hate to break it to you, but Daddy is no longer in the picture. He left the whole sodding world behind for the kids to fight over. It's not God you're looking for, Castiel."

Castiel frowned in confusion. "I don't understand."

Crowley shrugged.

"If God is no longer in the picture, then who—"

Crowley offered a half-smile, smug as always. "You're it, Cas. You're the golden boy. The one who saves the world and gets the girl in the end. Your girl just happens to be a big, strapping hunter named _Dean_."

"But the Bible said—"

"Loose interpretation, Cas. Trust me when I say that all our bets are riding on _you_."

Castiel opened his mouth, closing it quickly. He heard the roar of the Impala in the driveway. They had come back too soon.

"You should be concentrating on finding that sword," Crowley said off-handedly.

"Where is it!" Castiel snapped.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

The front door slammed.

Castiel's heart jumped in his chest. "You have to leave."

"Oh, I think I'll stick around, Cas. Catch up with 'ol Dean," Crowley returned cheekily.

"_Why are you acting so weird?_" Castiel heard Dean ask his brother.

"No. Please..."

"It breaks my black heart to see an angel beg," Crowley said, amused.

Something slammed against the bedroom door. Castiel could only guess that Sam was blocking Dean's way. "_Cas is sleeping._"

Castiel clenched his jaw and looked at Crowley, nearly pleading with his eyes. He couldn't have Dean finding out about this.

"_Dude, probably not. The light's still on,"_ Dean answered back.

Crowley conceded. "Find the sword and kill Dick friggin' Roman."

With that, Crowley fled and Castiel hurried to the blood-filled bowl, hoping to get rid of it before—

"Get out of my way!"

"Dean—"

It was too late. The door flew opened and Dean stepped inside, Sam following in close behind. There, with the bowl in his hands, Castiel froze, staring at Dean. His gut tightened with anxiety and fear, nearly making him weak in the knees. All he could do was watch Dean walk in slowly, cringe as he took in a lungful of air. It smelled thick with sulfur. Castiel knew that it was over, that Dean had caught him in his lie. Dean's expression… was heartbreaking. The doubt and the anger, the revelation of betrayal, spread across his face like wildfire.

"Cas..." Dean said, warningly.

"Dean, I can explain."

Dean looked at the bowl. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I did it to help, Sam—"

Dean advanced an angry step. "Did _what_, Cas? What did you do?"

Castiel fell silent beneath Dean's anger, dropping his eyes to the ground. Before Castiel realized it, Dean was just inches from him, like an enraged tornado about to destroy him. "What did you do!"

"Dean—" Sam started.

"No, stay outta this, Sam!"

Castiel looked up at him, pleading. "Dean—"

Dean clenched his jaw. "You have five seconds to answer me."

Castiel couldn't stop his too-human body from trembling. "I made a deal—"

"You _what_?"

"I made a deal to help Sam—"

"With _who_?"

Castiel could see Dean's anger in the flush on his face, the way it made his eyes sparkle with danger. With a hard swallow, he whispered, "Crowley."

"And you lied to me? Kept this from me? _Again_?" Dean growled out.

"I—"

"_Why?_"

"Dean, _please_. I did it to fix Sam."

"You could have told me!" Dean exploded, knocking the bowl out of Castiel's hands. Castiel shrunk back, pulled in again by the collar of his shirt. "You stupid son of a bitch!"

"Dean!"

Castiel looked into his angry face, unraveling at the seams. "Dean, I'm sorry. I didn't know—"

"Bullshit!" Dean turned and half-pushed, half-threw him near the door. "Get the fuck out of my sight! And you know what? Don't come back. You might as well be fucking dead to me."

"Dean!" Sam hissed.

Stunned, Castiel couldn't fully process anything but those words. They were like hot knives, digging into his skin, carving out his heart. The pain blinded him and made him ache. All of it… was just too overwhelming. Without thinking, Castiel barreled out of the room. He could hear the last few strings of the conversation—

"Dean, come on, man." 

"No. Just... _no_. You were in on this too, huh? What the fuck is wrong with you, man!"

—before leaving out the front door. The chilly air bit at his emotional wounds, slicing against his fragile skin. He trudged through the snow without a coat on, not caring about anything else but how much he had hurt Dean. If he had just listened to his conscience. If he had just not made that deal—no. He was going to fix Sam. None of this was broken, Castiel concluded. Yet Dean's angry words haunted him as he walked with no direction in mind. Walked just to get away from all the hurt, the anger, the distrust. Castiel had disappointed Dean and it wasn't something that he could face.

Castiel had lost track of time and the feeling in his extremities. As the snow fell, nipping at his skin, Castiel had lost track of _location_. He was out far in the woods with darkness all around him. The cabin was nowhere to be seen. Ahead of him, a light flickered in the distance and it was his only clue of direction. If for no other reason than to seek out heat and shelter, Castiel headed toward it, keeping his head low. The wind picked up, making the tiny snowflakes feel like thousands of knives burrowing into his skin.

As he came closer, Castiel discovered a small chapel. Small yet efficient. Peaceful. The perfect sanctuary amid this chaos. The warmth inside was almost heavenly, folding over him like an embrace. His fingertips started to tingle and his body didn't feel quite as cold. The only thing leaving him numb was the hurt and the guilt. Betraying Dean. Disappointing him. The only balm to soothe those words would be forgiveness. Forgiveness that may never come from Dean himself.

Castiel walked further into the small chapel, looking straight ahead at the cross on the wall. Perhaps forgiveness could be found elsewhere. If not forgiveness then… _understanding_. He knelt before the cross and bowed his head, whispering a quiet prayer to his Father. A Father that Crowley said had abandoned his children. Something that Castiel didn't believe. Castiel knew that God was here, somewhere, still listening.

"Please, Father. Help me."

Castiel fell silent and began to pray fervently. Minutes, hours could have passed. A noise behind him—the sound of wings?—finally broke him out of his reverie.

"Hello, brother."


	7. Chapter 7

"Hello, brother."

The voice was exotic, deep and dark like the roll of rich tobacco. From his fervent prayer, Castiel looked up. There, against the cross on the wall, stretched the silhouette of wings. Large, overbearing, and absolutely breathtaking. The immense power that emanated from them, the complete and utter devastation of his own insignificance—Castiel swallowed a lump in his throat and summoned the courage to look over his shoulder. He had expected something more imposing than what he found. Instead of the brilliance of an angel, Castiel saw a priest. Where he should have seen an entity terrifying in its beauty, Castiel discovered a _man_. Simple. _Limited._ His hair was dark, graying at the temples, and his eyes were as cold and as grey as slate. Stubble shadowed his jaw line, features angular and foreign. He smelled of alcohol and smoke, and embodied a fragility known only to the human condition.

Castiel's disappointment knew no bounds. Still, he couldn't deny feeling an old, ancient power. It radiated off him in potent, nearly suffocating pulses, making Castiel tremble as he stared. While the shell of a broken man stared back at him, Castiel knew that an angel, fierce and ruthless, inhabited that cage of flesh and bone. An angel whose sadness and longing matched his own.

"How amusing that it is the blasphemer, the _heretic_ who calls for Father's help."

Castiel openly flinched. Blasphemer, heretic—the names confused and hurt him. "Who are you?"

"Does it matter, Castiel? To he who would judge and slaughter thousands—brothers and sisters; _family_—all because we didn't see eye to eye?"

Castiel frowned. "It matters—"

"Nathanael. Once a fierce warrior, a messenger of God. Now… a broken spirit locked in the skin of a weak man. A dying _prison_." Nathanael stared at him with hard eyes. "Because of _you_."

"I… don't understand. How—"

"Your amnesia is convenient, isn't it, Castiel? Who can stand to blame he who cannot remember the blood that exists on his hands?"

Frustrated, Castiel clenched his jaw and looked away. "Heretic, blasphemer—why these names?"

"Why should I help you?"

Castiel shot him a heated, sidelong glance. "If you're not here to assist me, then why are you here?"

Nathanael smirked. "Perhaps I am here to kill you."

Castiel tensed. The sound of Nathanael's cutting laughter did nothing to ease Castiel's nerves.

"I was one of the brothers you had hoped to kill, Castiel," Nathanael explained. "We were on opposing sides, you see."

Castiel nodded his understanding. "Enemies."

"But now friends," Nathanael added cheekily. "Your greed, your hunger for power enabled you to ascend to the heights of Godhood. Like Father. You promised us _so_ many things. And then…" Nathanael spread his hands out wide, his expression sorrowful. "You slaughtered us by the thousands."

"Why?"

"Simple. We were the opposition to your rule, Castiel. Why else?"

Castiel dropped his eyes to the floor. Was this true?

"Before you and your _apes_ ruined everything, we were destined for Paradise. Peace, harmony. Happiness. Father would have come back and we would have lived in the brilliance of His Grace for all eternity." Nathanael shot him a glare. "You had other plans. You and those animals destroyed it all—our hopes, our dreams. Michael, Lucifer, Raphael—all gone. It was because of you we can never be happy."

Paradise. Happiness. Gone because of him. Castiel braced himself against the wave of guilt. "I'm… sorry." Although he felt responsible, a subconscious voice told him Nathanael was speaking half-truths. None of this felt completely right.

"No amount of guilt can fix what you've done, Castiel. The death toll in Heaven, your sin against The Father—"

"If I am this heretic, this blasphemer, then… what will you do? Kill me?"

"No," Nathanael said immediately. As he stepped closer, Castiel shrunk back. His brother was still angel; a dangerous, potential enemy. Languidly, Nathanael settled into one of the pews and pulled out a lighter. "No, not yet."

Castiel watched him light a cigarette, the tip burning a fiery red as his brother sucked on one end. Smoke billowed into the empty air. "You still have a role to play."

"The Leviathan?"

"Yes, the Leviathan," Nathanael stated matter-of-factly. "You see, you're the only one who can help us."

"Us?"

"Us—the world," Nathanael shrugged. "Not that these... _humans_ mean anything."

Castiel frowned.

"The Leviathan can only be killed by God. And since Father is… well, _gone_—" Nathanael took another drag of the cigarette, smoke snaking from his lips. "You're all that's left."

"And because I was—"

"The nearest thing to godliness—"

"I am the only one who can help," Castiel concluded. "The only one who can defeat the Leviathan."

"You're a fast learner. Not as dim-witted as I had expected," Nathanael chuckled.

Castiel ignored the verbal jab and stood, settling in beside his brother without a word. Nathanael didn't even look at him. "I've fallen quite far because of you, brother," Nathanael said after a long stretch of silence. "Quite frankly, you owe me, us—_the world_—a fair bit of debt."

Castiel nodded. He didn't disagree. "Killing this Leviathan, this Dick Roman," Castiel frowned, thinking. "There's a sword. Crowley said—"

"Ah, Crowley. The King of Hell. I hear you're back in bed with him."

Castiel sighed heavily, agitated. "Yes, I made a deal."

"How amusing."

Castiel choked down his frustrations.

"The sword—yes, of course," Nathanael said. "_Dei Iudicium_, the Sword of Fire, God's Wrath—it has many names. It was gifted to Uriel for his loyal service and was used to guard the Gate of Eden after the Fall of Mankind. As soon as the Civil War in Heaven struck, _Dei Iudicium _was stolen by a renegade angel. It was the only weapon not recovered."

"Then, we must find this renegade angel," Castiel said simply.

"Impossible."

"Why?"

"Balthazar is no longer with us. You killed him."

Castiel opened his mouth and then closed it.

"Thankfully, there is another means of getting it. You will have to find Eden."

"Where—"

"That is up to you, Castiel," Nathanael interrupted. "Only you can find your Eden."

Castiel sighed. "I don't understand."

"Eden is as much of a physical place as it is spiritual. It is a metaphysical origin of perfection, purity. A small piece of Heaven. Because we are angels, because we are God's greatest creation, we've been given the ability to reach out and grasp it. Experience it and use its existence to feel closer to our Father. The only question is…" Nathanael looked at him dead-on. "What is _your_ Eden? Is it a place? A state of being? Someone? Something?"

Castiel nodded, beginning to understand.

"Where ever Eden is, you'll find _Dei Iudicium_ there."

His choice was simple. "Will you help—"

"Let's not get too hasty, Castiel. It's not all fun and games. There are dangers, you see."

"I don't care. There's no other choice."

"While I admire your tenacity, your foolishness—"

"Nathanael," Castiel said sharply.

"Fine," his brother conceded, "But don't say I didn't warn you." Nathanael pulled at the cigarette once last time before putting it out on the wood of the pew. "Well then, let's find your Eden."

As they stood, the unmistakable growl of the Impala rumbled in the distance. It was down the road, Castiel could tell, edging closer with each passing second. Castiel hoped it would drive by, somehow miss the small chapel. It didn't. The Impala roared in the small driveway, dying as the ignition was cut.

"It sounds like we have company," Nathanael quipped.

"Dean," Castiel whispered. His heart pounded in his chest.

"Oh… _him_."

His brother's response sounded like a hiss of contempt. Castiel didn't have time to further contemplate the tone. Throwing the doors open, Dean charged in with Sam close behind. A frown was carved deeply into Dean's face, an air of anger circling him like a chaotic storm.

"Cas," Dean growled. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Dean—"

"Isn't it obvious?" Nathanael challenged.

Castiel bristled. Before he could open his mouth—

"Who the hell is this?" Dean demanded.

"Jealous?" Nathanael returned.

"What?" Dean gawked. "Fuck you."

Sam interjected. "Dean, come on, man."

"Dean," Castiel started, calm in his tone of voice. "This is Nathanael, my brother."

"Another dick angel?"

"Castiel," Nathanael warned. "I suggest you keep your pet on a leash—"

Dean clenched his jaw. "Look man, you are this close to getting blasted back to the Pearly Gates. In _pieces_."

"I'm disappointed you haven't trained him to be more reverent, brother."

Nathanael and Dean glared at each other. Clenching his jaw, Castiel shot Sam a helpless look before turning back to them. "Dean. Nathanael is here to help us—"

"Like hell he is," Dean shot back.

"Listen to your beloved, _ape_. I mean no harm."

"You son of a bitch," Dean hissed, stepping forward aggressively.

Castiel had no choice but to step between them. "Dean. _Please._"

"Come on, Dean. Let's not start anything," Sam reasoned.

Defeated, Dean growled and whirled away. "Let's go, Cas."

Castiel watched him walk away, left with a choice. Although his heart tugged at him, begged him to chase after Dean, Castiel knew he couldn't. He had an obligation to Sam to uphold and, in turn, Dean. With this, destroying the Leviathan, Castiel could possibly deserve Dean's forgiveness.

"No," said Castiel after a long stretch of silence.

"Ah, the heretic has a backbone," Nathanael quipped bemusedly.

Dean stopped and turned, glaring. "What did you call him? Man, fuck you."

"Again with your mouth."

Nathanael had lost his patience. Castiel could only watch in horror as his brother simply waved a hand, sending Dean into a far wall. Dean crashed into it with a thud and fell into a heap on the floor.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, rushing over to him.

Castiel stopped thinking and started moving. He turned on Nathanael suddenly, drawing the slender weapon from within his brother's sleeve. Castiel twisted and pinned him front-first against the altar, bringing the silver blade up against his neck. Nathanael grunted and froze.

"If you touch him again, it will be the _end_ of you."

In the face of danger, Nathanael had the gall to laugh. "I've heard the rumors of your loyalty to him, Castiel. But to actually _see_ it—"

Castiel pressed the blade harder against his throat.

"I find it amusing that you continuously choose your human over _family_."

"_You_ are not my family. They_ are_," Castiel growled out. "Will you guide me to Eden or not?"

"What choice do I have?" Nathanael hissed.

"None," was Castiel's answer. With that, Castiel let him go.

Nathanael stood up straight and tall, and adjusted his clothing. Castiel stole a glance at Sam, watching him help Dean up to his feet. When their eyes met, Sam nodded his head, indicating that Dean was okay. Castiel nearly blew out a sigh of relief.

"Right, then. Eden?" Nathanael asked.

Castiel nodded and followed his brother's indication toward the pew, laying down on it. Dean approached quickly with Sam hovering behind him. "What's going on? Cas, what are you doing?"

"Finding Eden," Castiel said.

"Be silent, Righteous Man. I'll explain everything in due time," Nathanael snipped. He turned to address Castiel. "Once you're beyond this reality, you're on your own. Follow the light and be quick about it. You won't last long in Eden."

Castiel nodded. As Nathanael began speaking in a vaguely familiar language, Castiel shifted his head to look at Dean. There was worry on his face beneath the hard expression he wore. Dean was the last thing Castiel saw before his world turned black.

:::

Castiel woke to a dark, listless world; one without color and hope. The shadows hung like funeral shrouds, black and tattered all around him. Death itself reigned here like an impatient patriarch, spreading an unshakable chill across his bones. Heavy, the air reached out to suffocate him, iron claws making his lungs burn. In a place that seemed more like Hell than Eden, Castiel felt his hope drain away, darkness seeping into the holes left behind.

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw a glimpse of his only light source.

Castiel sat up and turned to find Dean standing close to him. There, over his heart, hovered a soft glowing light. It grew in intensity, nearly blinding him, when Dean looked down at his corporal form. The expression on his face bordered on heartbreak, still hard around the edges. While Dean appeared unyielding, the light felt so warm and looked so bright that it nearly stained Castiel's eyes with tears. Was this what Dean's forgiveness felt like? His love? Castiel had to remind himself how to breathe.

As if on cue, Castiel felt the very beginnings of _exhaustion_. Nathanael's warning echoed in his subconscious and inspired him to move, to get up from the pew and stand on his own two feet. If Castiel planned on finding his Eden, he'd need to move quickly.

"Lead me," Castiel whispered to the light.

It pulsed brightly, _lovingly_, and began moving, gravitating toward the church's entrance and out. Castiel followed. Beyond the church's door, he expected to see forest, wide and deep, lush pine trees dotting the roadway. Complete and utter darkness greeted him instead. It swelled up like a black sea and oozed toward him with a speed that made him shrink back. The phantasmal light, Castiel's only saving grace, pulsed again, brighter still, and kept the shadows at bay. Here, beneath its protection, Castiel knew safety. _Love_. Castiel felt as if he could face anything.

Together, they moved quickly through the desolate atmosphere. The moans of lost souls haunted him, hateful whispers and accusations piercing through his skin. The voices of brothers, sisters—_family_. Even the woeful cries of humanity, those that had been slaughtered mercilessly by his vengeance. When one of the shadowy creatures lunged for him, the light pulsed again, making Castiel shield his eyes. He heard the hissing sound of a spirit reprimanded.

As they moved farther, the darkness around them became more turbulent. Castiel sped up the pace, desperate to find safer ground and found it in the silhouette of a quaint house ahead of them. The home was picturesque in its myriad of color, soft greens chasing away dour shades of gray. Roses dotted its white picket fence and dark green shutters framed white-trimmed windows. This place had significance, Castiel knew, and was confirmed by the way his guiding light shimmered brightly. A warm aura that felt happy yet tinged with a sense of longing. Whatever this home represented, where ever it was, it held a profound meaning for Dean.

The light began to move again, drifting toward the house and through the door. Castiel followed dutifully. Inside, a family had gathered. The love in the room was bright and inviting. Castiel smelled food, pie, and heard laughter. He recognized Sam immediately. The younger Winchester boy looked happy, attached at the hip to a blonde, pregnant woman. They smiled at one another with so much love that it made Castiel ache.

In the kitchen, an older blonde woman was preparing a grand meal, accompanied by a gruff man. The hard edges around his face reminded Castiel of Dean and his eyes, dark and rich, spoke of worldly wisdom. When the woman shot him a grin, his entire face changed. His smile, genuine and deep, reminded Castiel of Dean too. The guiding light beamed with _love_, brighter than he had ever seen it. This must be Dean and Sam's mother and father, then. Family.

If so, where was Dean?

Castiel got his answer when the front door swung open wide. There, in the doorway, stood Dean, grinning from ear-to-ear; a type of smile that Castiel hadn't seen in—ever. With a booming voice, Dean announced, "Hey, everybody!"

The whole family became more alive and animated, gravitating toward him immediately. His mother intercepted him first, hugging him and kissing his cheek. "I'm so glad you could make it."

Dean smiled. "Me too, mom."

His father was next, wrapping Dean in a brief, rigid hug. "Son."

Dean returned it with the same brevity. "Dad."

Dean's world completely changed when Sam stepped up. He punched his younger brother in the arm and grabbed a hold of him, drawing him into a crushing hug. "Hey, Sammy."

"Hey, Dean."

When they broke apart, Dean approached the pregnant, blonde woman and rubbed her belly. She smiled and gave him a hug. "Hi, Dean."

"Hey, Jess," Dean whispered. He unhooked his arms from her and shot Sam a grin. "Can't believe my baby brother's gonna be a dad. Hell musta frozen over."

"Dean," Sam chastised, rolling his eyes.

"Dinner's ready!"

As everyone crowded around the dinner table, Castiel concentrated on Dean. His smile brightened his whole face and grew even wider when his mother slapped his hand away from the pie. This was his Eden; a place and time where Dean was happy, at peace, surrounded by those he loved most. A place where Castiel wasn't. Perhaps Dean's happiness and his absence were one in the same. Castiel swallowed back his self-hatred as a deep, emotional hurt found its place beside exhaustion.

The loving family scene faded out. Castiel stepped forward in desperation, reaching out toward Dean. Thick tendrils of darkness lunged for Castiel, churning like an angry tornado. With a surge of energy, the guiding light pulsed again, sending the shadows to cave in on themselves. Another pulse beckoned Castiel and he turned reluctantly to follow. Away from the space that once held Dean's image, his happiness. He followed the light in silence, walking through the part of the house still unchained by darkness. Through one of the room's closets, Castiel found his next challenge.

On the other side, Castiel had to stop and take in a deep breath. His exhaustion was getting out of hand, making it difficult to move. He convinced himself to keep on, knowing what was at stake. He needed to do this for Sam. For Dean. There was no other choice.

The interior of the closet stretched and stretched. It became a corridor, long and deep, with a light shining at the end of it. As they approached, Castiel could see the sword. It was ornate, ancient, fire licking along its slender blade. No opposition came when Castiel gripped its hilt and pulled, freeing it from the hooks that kept it upright. Not until Castiel gave it a few test swings did anything happen at all. And then…

The light went out.

Castiel froze in the darkness, suddenly alone and cold. The pervasive feeling of abandonment devastated him, draining him of every ounce of hope he had left. Around him, the voices began to whisper louder, closing in. Fear shivered down his spine and Castiel held the sword tight, summoning his buried courage. The sword sparked to life, its fire bright and fierce. With its light, Castiel could see the fleeting outline of—

Himself.

Two mirror images. One of them with black ooze dripping down his face and the other—expression smug, high on power. Castiel stood there still, confused, gripping the sword with two hands. Defensive, ready to fight.

"Well, what do we have here?" one of his images asked tauntingly, blackness seeping out of his pores. The other didn't speak, but his smile grew wider. "Let's play, shall we? We're going to have so much fun."

His images pulled out slender blades, much like the one Castiel had used on Nathanael. Except theirs were much longer—swords. Deadly. An unnatural fear struck him cold.

They circled and then came at him hard, swinging their weapons. In his hands, his own sword felt like a dead weight due to his exhaustion. The sound of metal-on-metal rang out once, twice, signifying that Castiel had blocked the strikes successfully. Every movement drained more energy out of him, making his next block sloppy. It partially deflected the diagonal swipe of one of the blades, the tip of it slicing through his defenses. It nicked his shoulder, drawing a thick line of blood and light. Castiel knew then why had such a fear of those weapons; it affected him past his physical form. Deeper, to his core, to whatever angels tended to bleed.

He didn't see the next attack coming. Tired or just hopeless, Castiel couldn't get his sword up in time to shield himself from the blade that cut into his side. The smug one, the superior image of himself, pushed the blade in further. Castiel cried out and fell to his knees.

Darkness swirled around him.

:::

Dean's heart jumped into his throat as Cas started convulsing. He didn't hesitate, rushing over to his side. "Cas!" Dean touched his face and felt sick to his stomach as blood trickled out of Cas' mouth. He shot a glare at Nathan. "What the fuck is wrong with him?"

Nathan leisurely sucked on the end of his cigarette. "Eden."

Dean growled. "Goddamnit—"

"Ah, ah. Be respectful," Nathan chided.

"Tell us what's wrong with him!" Sam hissed.

"I told him that this wouldn't be easy," Nathan began with a sigh. "Castiel has found opposition with himself. What you're seeing here," Nathan motioned to Cas. "is his surrender. With surrender comes—well, you know."

Dean looked back at Cas.

"If only he had a reason to come back…"

Dean bowed his head and closed his eyes. "Fuck." Dean exhaled hard, burying all the anger and betrayal, and whispered, "Goddamnit, Cas. Come back home." He fell quiet and then said—

"Come back to _me_."


	8. Chapter 8

On his knees, Castiel heaved a labored breath and placed a hand to the wound on his side. Pain finger-walked its way up and thrummed hollow in his chest, his exhaustion mounting and weighing heavy on his bones. He slumped. His fingers loosened on the sword's hilt. He'd already given up; the want to live, the _need_ to survive this—gone. As his duplicates circled him, toying with his fate, he bowed his head in silent surrender.

But death didn't come.

The dawn of something warm and loving filled his empty spaces, made the exhaustion more… bearable. When he looked up, he didn't see the horrid faces of his copies, but a nebulous form taking shape in front of him. Soft and milky white; a cloud twisting and bending, illuminated by its own inner light. The face it had become; the nose, the mouth, the green eyes he'd come to love—he took a sharp breath.

_Dean_.

A surge of energy raced through his muscles as translucent hands touched his face, as a thumb brushed over the arch of his cheekbone. He fought against the temptation to close his eyes, to relish in the loving caress for fear that if he did, he'd be devoured by the darkness and hatred of this place. Instead, he kept them open, staring into Dean's eyes while trying to summon his courage. It was as if Dean knew, sweeping his thumb across his cheek bone again, soothing his aching spirit. Here, in this plane of non-existence, Dean smiled, kissed his lips, and whispered:

"Come back to me."

Forgiveness. Love. _Hope._ It set the fibers of his very being on fire; renewed strength burning in his legs, his fingers. He gripped the sword tight and pulled up to his feet. Dean's image disappeared and his guiding light returned, pulsing to send another wave through him. In its presence, he found the will to live.

His images cringed in the presence of the light and, beyond its glow, grew more agitated. They lunged but the light pulsed again, keeping them at bay. Beneath it, Castiel trembled and stumbled against nothing, holding out a hand to brace himself. His exhaustion began to scratch at his skin, clawing at him as his energy started to wane again. His wound… it was too grievous.

_I… can't do this, Dean. Forgive me._

Dean's light answered with pulse of bright light, zipping toward him with the hurried flight of an angry bee. But anger wasn't what electrified him when Dean soaked into his skin. No, it wasn't anger. But the love of _healing_. He wanted to marvel at its warmth, its complete and utter fulfillment. Drown in its perfection.

His images struck before he could take his next breath.

The sudden lack of light emboldened his copies, both leading with quick blades meant to kill. He danced back to avoid one of the blows; an effortless swipe of a sword aimed for his neck. The smug one didn't hesitate, darting in, hacking and slashing at the air. The rapid succession kept him on the defensive, on the backs of his heels, as he stumbled away—farther into the mouth of blackness. Just a moment; it was all he needed. A chance to collect his composure, a second to catch his breath. As the taunting laugh of his copies faded, as he tripped and tumbled in the dark, his senses caught up. His exhaustion returned and a tremor of pain traced a line across his stomach.

He ignored it, trading in every ounce of pain, every throb of his aching skin, for concentration. Listening. His heart rushed in his ears, his throat jolting with each ricocheting beat. He stood impossibly still, inching a hand across his stomach. A hairline cut, nothing more; a minor irritant in a major scope of danger.

Something moved behind him. He whipped his head, squinting his eyes as he strained to hear. Silence mocked him, the dull echo of his aches and bruises reminding him that he wasn't alone. That pain would always follow. He took a shallow breath, just enough to fill his lungs, and tightened his grip on the sword. Still nothing. No movement. No haunting laughter. No life other than the soft glow—

He looked down. His sword, _Dei Iudicium_, grew with intensity; a spark blossoming and flaring, burning a fierce blue. Warning him.

The attack came from the dark; a quick cut with a wicked blade, tipping toward his spine. Castiel whirled and deflected the blow easily, staring into his own face; black ooze bleeding from his pores. His haunted eyes stared back at him, lifeless, crazed, the smile on his face deranged. With a widening grin, his copy came in again, swinging hard. Left then right. Each deflected with a ring of steel and an arc of blue fire. His desperation, his fury, fueled his attacks and he didn't stop, couldn't; his muscles aching with the very fight for his life. He thought of Dean. His smile, his touch.

He wanted to live.

Castiel knocked aside another strike, driving his sword forward with all of his strength. His arms jarred with the impact, a dead-stop pivoting the momentum back into his body. In front of him, the smug smile of his copy slowly unraveled. Their eyes met and then fell to the sword stuck in his chest. Their moment of shared surprised lasted a lifetime; time corroding flesh and turning it to stone. His copy's skin turned ashen, began to flake away, pieces of him crumbling like an old statue left to waste in a forgotten garden of desolation.

Just as the dust settled, his second image charged in from behind. Loud. Furious with his growl. Castiel spun, swung his sword in an even, horizontal arc—and lopped his image's head clean from his body.

The darkness cracked at the edges, blinding light bleeding from its wounds. His Eden—his _Hell_—fizzled like an old television set. There was static and then—

:::

Castiel opened his eyes to find the chapel's ceiling looming overhead. He sucked in a grateful breath, thankful for reality; for his lightheadedness, the dull ache in his bones, the stomach-twist of nausea. He was alive—

"Cas? You okay?"

_Dean._

His eyes dropped from the ceiling, eager to find Dean's face. Dean smiled at him and swept a thumb across his cheekbone—just like he had in Eden. The gentle touch, the softness of his skin; Castiel leaned into it before Dean could pull away, savoring the moment between them; something not often shared in front of an audience. Multiple pairs of eyes pinpricked his skin; Sam and Nathanael watching them from several feet away. He understood Dean's hesitation, didn't need the affection because the concern in his green eyes was enough.

"You okay?"

He studied Dean's face… and then sucked in a startled breath. One by one, the pieces of his brain slotted together, building vivid puzzle of everything he had lost; memories, knowledge—e_verything_ he had known. The number of freckles on Dean's face (three hundred and seventy-two), every moment they had shared together… the press of Dean's lips against his, the burning pitch of his soft skin. The rescue from Hell that had birthed their rocky beginning and the slow boil from friends into… something more.

He remembered everything.

_Everything_.

As quickly as elation had come, it disappeared. Thousands of Heaven dead; brothers and sisters he'd slaughtered. The devastation on Earth. His betrayal twice over. Sam's head…

A gasp ripped out of his throat, a noise so strangled, so agonized that he could barely breathe—

"Cas?"

He blinked and tucked away his torture, struggled to plaster on a small smile that wouldn't stand a chance beneath the weight of his guilt. Castiel turned his head away instead. Away from Dean, away from the silent judge and jury. Nathanael, his brother, stared at him blankly, puffing on a cigarette whose tip flared hellfire red. Sam's concern bounced between he and his brother. Among the silent questions and destructive guilt, something somewhere pulsed. A flare of blue outlining Dean's strong jaw line; a heat growing in the palm of his hand. Together, all eyes gravitated down to the sword in his hand.

"_Dei Iudicium_," Nathanael whispered.

The Sword of Fire. God's Wrath. Glowing blue because—

A slow, deliberate clap echoed in the small chapel. Mocking in its dull, even tone. Each of them turned to find Crowley, head-to-toe in black, a devil-may-care smile spread across his face.

"Well, well, well," Crowley oozed. "I'm impressed."

He wasn't alone. Demons bled from the darkness, drawing an arrogant circle around them.

"Crowley," Dean grated out, his teeth clenched to the point of breaking.

"Hello, boys." The King of Hell smiled.

"What the fuck—"

"Now, now. Let's dispense with the unpleasantries, shall we?" Crowley held out his hands in surrender. "We're on the same team."

"Like hell we are," Dean hissed.

"Dean—"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean growled. He snapped a glare at Crowley. "Listen, you dick—"

Castiel drowned out the sounds of arguing, closed his eyes and willed it away. They didn't stop. Their voices grew louder. His aches and pains, his bone-deep exhaustion, frazzled his nerves and frayed the edges of his brain. All he wanted to do was rest, gather his thoughts. But the shouting—it was too loud.

He licked his lips tentatively, pushing a whisper past the dryness of his throat. "Please. Stop fighting." But no one heard him and his headache raged.

"You've got two seconds to get the fuck—"

"Stop fighting!"

His voice boomed against the walls of the small chapel. They fell silent and the force of a dozen heated stares found him. "He's right." Castiel whispered. "We have a common enemy."

"Cas—"

"We could use their help," he intoned sternly.

"Ah, someone with a bit of sense," Crowley said smugly.

Dean leveled him with a glare, his jaw clenched. The anger in his body language—the rigidity, the balled fists at his side. While Dean simmered with silent rage, Nathanael eagerly puffed on his cigarette; both he and Sam quiet. They too knew the truth, knew that the only way of defeating Dick Roman—

"You strike tonight," Nathanael said suddenly. "—while the element of surprise is still yours."

"We're not ready," Dean barked. "We don't even know where he is."

"But we do," Crowley said.

"How?" Dean demanded.

"We've been tracking him for weeks—"

"Are you—" Dean ran a hand down his face, trying to keep his temper in check. "You meanin' to tell me you've known where he was _all along_?"

Crowley grinned.

"Are you fucking kidding—"

"Enough," Castiel growled. Silence settled in the old bones of the chapel. "We strike tonight," he said. "_And_… we work with the demons."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Good. Now, that that's settled," Crowley said, turning toward the double doors.

"Where the fuck are you going?" Dean snapped.

"To storm the proverbial castle," Crowley said dryly. "Chicago. Illinois. Richard Roman Enterprises. Any two idiots could've figured that out."

Dean and Sam traded glances.

One by one, the demons disappeared, soaked up by the shadows like a sponge. The small chapel grew heavy with silence, the weight of it draped across his shoulders. It was difficult to stand, his exhaustion keen. Wobbly on his feet, his center at odds with his balance, Castiel staggered back and caught himself on the pew. Dean didn't make a move to intervene, to help him, his anger keeping him frozen as it ran like ice water through his veins. Castiel didn't need to look at him to know Dean was displeased with him. He could _feel_ it.

"We should leave for Chicago," he said at length, taking in a breath of stale air. Dust clung to the inside of his throat, his chest constricted from the lingering effects of Eden. At length, he looked up, fixated his brother with a questioning look.

Nathanael chuckled shallowly, puffing on his cigarette. When he exhaled, gray ribbons of smoke curled in the air. "This isn't my fight, brother."

Dean tightened like a coil spring.

"I understand," Castiel whispered. He lifted his chin to Dean. "We should go."

Dean stormed off without a word, the sound of his boots a war drum's beat on the floorboards. Castiel ignored the banging echo in his head and turned to Nathanael. "Thank you, brother. For everything."

Nathanael lowered his eyes, rubbing the cigarette out on the old wood. "Don't fail us."

The flap of wings preceded his disappearance; a dying ember and tendrils of smoke the only signs he had ever existed at all. Castiel turned his back and walked out of the chapel, toward the only family he'd ever really known.

:::

The dense forest of Montana's rural landscape scrolled by, every tree and mountain painted with a brushstroke of white snow. Castiel sat in the backseat of the Impala, quiet and contemplative, as soft rock trickled out from the speakers. Dean concentrated on the road while Sam looked out the passenger side window. Each of them lost to doubts, fears, and exhaustion. The looming confrontation with Dick Roman, a creature more powerful than anything he'd seen, filled him with his own doubts. And with the sword weakening on this plane of existence with each passing moment, the end of this tale seemed insurmountably clear to him.

Castiel let slip a small sigh from his lips, staring at Dean's image in the rearview mirror. The thought of leaving him behind—he clenched his jaw and dropped his eyes to the sword on his lap. It shimmered in the minimal light, a soft blue dominating the shadows of the back seat. He ran a finger along the flat side of its blade, a stronger pulse of blue reacting to his touch, chasing his finger down the length to its tip. Beautiful, one of his Father's perfect creations… _parasitic_. The sword fed off his Grace, sucking at it little by little from his fingertip like a hungry animal. The faint blue glow strengthened, brightened—

"Turn it off, Cas," Dean grumbled.

Castiel pulled his hand away and the sword dulled, retaining its soft glow until it winked out altogether. His Grace was the key; the final piece to the puzzle. If the sword needed his Grace to power itself, if it drained every little bit of it... he let the thought hang dead in the air and pushed the question of his mortality into the back of his head.

They broke through the line of forest and mountains two hours later. Dean cursed the cost of gas as he pulled up to a small station in the middle of nowhere. He stepped out of the Impala and slammed the door behind him, leaving he and Sam alone. As Dean pumped the gas, phantom breaths fell from his lips, his nose and the tips of his ears flushed due to the cold. There was anger in the frown on his face, fear in his green eyes. Fear because the people he cared about were risking their lives again. Anger because of demons, Dick Roman, his betrayal—

Their eyes met through the window. The chill in his eyes warmed for just a moment, a question of _why?_ and _I can't lose you_ softening his jaw line. And it was all he needed for a surge strength, of hope, to shoot through him, to invigorate him. Even when the warmth in Dean's face died, returned to that impenetrable mask of stoicism, his metaphorical rebirth didn't fade.

It was right then, with their eyes still locked together, that Castiel wanted to raise his fingertips to the glass. A simple gesture to thank Dean for everything; teaching him the wonder of free will, how to feel… how to _love_. Risking rejection, he touched his fingers to the window, not once breaking eye contact with Dean. Dean stared at him, his fingers, and frowned, shoving his hand deeper into his pocket. The gas pump thumped and Dean turned away.

His hand burned with a million stings. He looked away from the window and down to the floor, slumping against the seat.

"You love my brother, don't you?"

Castiel looked up to find Sam staring at him. The answer didn't require thought, so quick on his lips that there wasn't any hesitation. "What I feel for your brother, Sam," he began, taking in a deep breath as if the very notion left him breathless, "transcends language."

Love was simply a word. What he felt surpassed it.

Sam opened his mouth and then closed it as soon as Dean opened the car door, got in and slammed it shut. The volley of conversation between the brothers wavered and rippled, the piercing wail of a voice filling his head. He winced and covered his ears, absorbing the sudden and intense headache with a whimper.

_The demons—they're attacking. Come now!_

The headache disappeared, leaving the echo of a voice behind. Castiel peeled his hands away from his ears and looked up. Dean and Sam stared at him with questions on their faces.

"We have to go. _Now_."

Before they could open their mouths, he touched their foreheads.

:::

The Impala's leather comfort gave way to a hellstorm of carnage. The tall office building in front of them showed signs of an ongoing battle, screams pouring out from broken windows. The bodies of several demons littered the landscaped green; detached heads of Leviathan dotting the front walk. A demon and a Leviathan fought, kicking and clawing on the walkway while another body fell lifeless from the rooftop.

Silhouetted against one of the top floor windows, a statuesque figure watched the activity below. His body language, composed and fluid, betrayed a lack of concern. Even from here, Castiel could almost see a stark edge of faint amusement; the silent dare of an egomaniac.

Castiel narrowed his eyes and grabbed the brothers' shoulders. The scene transformed again with the whip-and-flutter of loose paper. The statuesque figure turned, a smile oozing across his face.

Dick Roman.

"Ah, the Winchester boys," Dick charmed. "And their little pet angel." Dick outstretched his hands in a show of bravado. "We've been expecting you."

From behind, the double doors whipped open and produced two Leviathan. The creatures rushed toward Sam and Dean; one of them throwing a punch toward Sam's face and the other grabbing Dean by the shoulders and hurling him into a wall. Castiel didn't have time to react, didn't have time to save them. Dick Roman came in hard and fast, leading with an angel killing blade. Castiel jumped back but not quickly enough, earning himself a deep cut across his bicep. A fissure of glowing light seeped through his skin, the pain of it excruciating.

"Easy to find one of these if you know where to look," Dick chuckled. "Your angel pals aren't very fond of you."

Castiel ignored him, whipping an empty hand to the side. From his fingers materialized the Sword of Fire, _Dei Iudicium_, attaching to his Grace and sucking it from his core. Castiel jolted with the force, winced under the power of its hunger, but remained upright and determined. The sword flared an angry blue, sparking and igniting into oranges and golds, erupting with a fiery red hiss. Flames licked along its length and Castiel's vision blurred, his lungs constricting. He swallowed thickly and advanced. Dick took a step back.

"Tonight, you meet your end."

Castiel charged as fast as his deadened legs could carry him, swinging the sword with arms made of lead. Dick jumped back, knocked a file rack of papers over and scrambled behind a desk. With a growl, Castiel swung the sword up over his head and down, splitting the desk in half with an effort equal to cutting butter with a hot knife. Dean shouted in pain, instinctively drawing his attention. One of the creatures held Dean at knifepoint—

—and crippling pain speared his side. Castiel looked down. Harsh light. The angel killing blade buried to the hilt in his body. He staggered back one step, two, slow fingers inching their way down to the grievous wound. Light continued to bleed from it, draining him of precious energy, his Grace slipping through the tattered edges. Exhaustion, more pronounced than in Eden, invaded his body, corroding every muscle, every nerve ending.

"What's the matter, angel?"

His chuckle promised a great deal in its dark undertones; pain for the Winchester boys, another inhumane end for human kind. Castiel found courage as the Leviathan's grin widened. In that moment, he wasn't the power-crazed angel that had committed thousands to their deaths. Or the wayward son of an absent Father.

In his darkest moment of weakness, he had found his strength.

With the flap of wings, he appeared behind his enemy and thrust forward with all his strength. Dick's body contorted and jolted forward as _Dei Iudicium _ran him through, his spine bowing with the force of the blow. As the sword sucked at his Grace, as it powered itself and grew in intensity, the office building began to tremble and shake. Castiel sent a fleeting glance to Dean, relief soothing his aching bones when Nathanael, his brother, pulled a blade free from the choking, dying Leviathan at his feet.

Dean was safe. And so was Sam.

Castiel closed his eyes. The rattling stopped, cool air whispering across his skin. He had traded the steel cage of the office building for the freedom of the night air. Away from Dean, to keep him safe from his undoing. As the sword ripped him apart, tore his vessel from the inside out, his thoughts fell away from pain. The powerful thrum of the charging sword disappeared, replaced with the memories of Dean's laughter. No longer was his skin burning away, but soothed instead by Dean's touch. The brush of his lips, of his soft skin against his own.

These were memories worth holding onto.

His world faded around him, dark colors replaced with bright, blinding light. His regrets melted away, peace healing the wounds that his betrayals had left behind. His death would be penance for his sins. The curse of the slaughtered thousands would be lifted. The atrocious act of hurting Sam… forgotten. In his torturous life, he had found true forgiveness.

_I love you, Dean._

Castiel let go.

:::

Around him the building groaned and began to shake. When Cas looked at him, the world seemed to stop. It was just them. Stillness. Time suspended. The apology in his blue eyes almost tangible; a perceivable sadness he couldn't place. And just like that, he was gone.

The world resumed its frenetic pace.

Dean drove a sharp elbow back into the Leviathan's ribs and jumped away when the grip around his neck finally loosened. He'd planned to finish him, take its head clean off with a fire axe he'd found, but didn't have to. The Leviathan's dead-faced expression of horror said everything and when it dropped to the ground in a lifeless heap, Nathanael stood behind it, flashing a smug smile. A few feet away, another dead Leviathan; a gaping hole at the base of its skull. Brain pierced through by the bloody angel killing the dick angel held in his hands. From somewhere in the chaos, Sam coughed and stood up from behind an overturned desk. They were safe.

But not all of them.

_Cas._

Dean leapt over a fallen office chair and pressed his face to the window. There, on the lawn outside, stood Cas and Dick Roman; the king dick Leviathan speared through and Cas glowing like a Christmas light with too much juice. Brighter, brighter. For no comprehensible reason, he began pounding on the glass. Over and over again. Calling out his name as if it'd stop the inevitable. Somehow, somewhere in the back of his head, he knew. He knew this was it.

Cas was going to die.

Furious, panicking, he pounded on the glass some more. He couldn't hear Sam behind him, shouting what could only be his name. Couldn't feel the hands that gripped his arms tight and tried to pull him away. He pounded and pounded. Screaming Cas' name until his throat dried up, until he couldn't breathe. And then, there was light. Blinding, excruciating light. He shielded his eyes with an arm at the last possible second, turned and ran for the office door.

His legs burned as he sped through the halls, to the stairwell and down, taking two steps at a time. His lungs labored, his heart a funeral drum in his ears. His knees buckled and he half-stumbled down a step, skinning his knee wide open. He didn't even register the pain as he got back up, as he flew down the stairs, blood oozing down his legs. He could only think about Cas. About getting to him in time before he—

He sped through the lobby and crashed shoulder-first into the front door, breaking out into the cold air in a dead run. Ahead, the bright light dimmed and then vanished altogether, leaving behind a sight that would destroy him for the rest of his life. He slid to his knees and scrabble-crawled to the body in front of him. Cold. Lifeless. The body of Cas. His Cas.

Angrily, he threw the sword onto the lawn and looked him over, not daring to touch. Afraid that if he did, the angel would simply crumble and fall into the earth. He hovered a hand over his face, checking for breath, timid to brush the ash from his skin. Flakes of it covered him from head to toe, black as pitch, thin as burnt paper; the broken and charred remains of Dick fucking Roman, reduced to fire log ash. Nothing more than trash carried by the wind.

He wavered on his knees, struck dumb. He'd lost Cas… _again_. And the reality of it—crushed him. Froze him still. A sickening ache in his chest kept him from breathing, his lungs shortchanged of air. They came in gasps, breaking through the iron of his ribcage, as a single tear fell down his face. He reached forward carefully, slowly, and touched a hand to Cas' cheek. And then he fell apart; his face hot with tears, his body turned to liquid.

Dean yanked on Cas' body, pulling it up, close to his chest. He held him tight, buried his face into his cold neck and rocked him back and forth. Running his fingers through his dark hair.

A part of him died in the shadowed outline of charcoal wings.

:::

Castiel opened his eyes and tilted his chin up. White as far as the eye could see. Endless. Freeing. He sat in a white chair and, across from him, another. He flinched when he realized he wasn't alone, that a familiar figure sat in the chair opposite him. Dark hair, graying at the temples. Deep gray-green eyes that held unfathomable wisdom. He knew that face—

"Chuck, the Prophet," he whispered.

Chuck studied his face and slowly shook his head, saying nothing. Giving no clue. If not Chuck, then who? As if it were his only clue, he concentrated on the blossoming warmth in his chest. A connection that slowly intensified, a link almost… familial. It became overwhelming, the glow turning fierce; a sear of awe and… pureness of love. An unconditional love felt by angels when in the presence of—

He gasped, the word, "Father," forced out in one, emptying breath, stealing his lungs of air. Without thinking, he slipped from the chair and began to sink to his knees in worship—

"Please," the Father said. "Don't."

Castiel froze, gripping onto the arm of the chair, stuck between sitting and falling to his knees. Between blasphemy and benediction. Slowly, he pushed himself up and sat in the chair, his posture as rigid as a statue. They stared at each other, saying nothing. Saying nothing because there was too much between them. Cotton filled his throat. Here he was, faced with his Father; the Father who had created him, loved him.

Abandoned him.

As much as he tried to keep it at bay, a frown crept across his face. A deepening scowl that betrayed his hurt, his anger. It bubbled within him, churned and rolled with the heat of a thousand suns. So many thoughts in his mind, so many questions. But the only one he could manage to utter was—

"Why?"

_Why didn't you answer my prayers? Why did you abandon me?_

A long moment carried the silence. Father didn't move, didn't speak. Finally, when He licked his lips, looked down at his hands, Castiel managed to take a life-giving breath.

"Castiel—"

He swallowed down his awe, steeled himself against the sheer joy of his Father simply uttering his name. In the breathtaking _need_ to please his Father, he found another voice. Rebellious and angry. Sinful. Somewhere in his amazement, he'd lost his patience, with himself, with his Father, and took a chance with his life. "Why did you leave Heaven? Why—" Castiel took a haggard breath, his emotions scratching his throat dry. "Why didn't you come home? I prayed to you. Every night, begging you to come back to us, begging for help—"

"Castiel," God said more firmly. His voice boomed and the white endlessness suddenly seemed finite.

Castiel shrank back and dropped his eyes to the floor like a scolded child. "My apologies, Father. I—I should be punished for my blasphemy."

"Nonsense," Father said. The white chair squeaked and groaned as He leaned back, as He considered him with Chuck's gray-green eyes. "Castiel, there are things beyond your comprehension at work. I could say my absence was a test. For you. Your brothers and sisters, but—" He shook his head.

Castiel leaned forward, hungry for every word, studying every line of His face. When his Father said nothing, clenched His jaw instead, Castiel inched forward to the edge of his seat. There was pain there, behind those human eyes; a weariness that took him by surprise.

"I was tired, Castiel," He admitted fallibly. "Just… tired."

"Tired…" Castiel echoed. He didn't understand. "Tired?"

"Your brothers and sisters, humanity, all of Creation—"

"You were _tired_," Castiel said bitterly. "Tired… so you left us without guidance, without a Father to rule Heaven." He heaved an angry breath. "We needed you, Father. We needed—" Castiel swallowed hard. "Heaven was _cold_ and _dark_ without your light. Without you—Zachariah, Raphael—they tried to bring about the Apocalypse. They tried to destroy humanity!"

Beneath the scrutiny of his Father's gaze, his anger fizzled out. He remembered himself suddenly, stunned to silence by his Father's unfailing glory. In the face of his imperfection, his son's impudence, his Father studied him quietly. Patiently. Love unfaltering.

Castiel lowered his eyes, shame constricting his throat. "I'm so—so sorry."

"You stopped it, Castiel. The Apocalypse, Raphael's Rise—you stopped it and chose Free Will; a gift I've only given to my greatest creations."

He bowed his head, unworthy of the praise.

"You did well," Father said calmly. "And I am proud to call you my son."

The compulsion to kneel and worship lanced through his bones. His Father gave him love and understanding despite his grave sins. The thousands that he killed; brothers and sisters; humans that he swore to protect. The very sin of wanting to become like Him—

"This… son—this abomination.." He couldn't meet his Father's eyes. "I—I nearly destroyed Heaven. Killed hundreds…" Castiel took a breath. It rattled hollow in his chest. "I don't deserve your praise. I don't—I don't deserve to live. I deserve punishment; to do penance for my sins."

"Then, you will return to Heaven to make things right; to do your penance."

The question registered on his face before he could say it.

"_We_ need to make things right," his Father continued. "Both of us."

Castiel stared at him, his mouth agape. To return to Heaven with his Father, to be given a chance to right his unforgivable wrongs… He thought of Dean, Sam—the promises he made. "If I return with you to Heaven, you.." He looked down, away from his Father's eyes. "You must fix Sam Winchester.. return Bobby Singer—" Castiel dared to look up. "Please, Father."

:::

Dean shielded his eyes from the bright sun with his hand. The heat of an unusually warm February day in Montana should have lifted his spirits. But it didn't. Nothing would. Not after Cas—

He clenched his jaw and hauled his duffel bag from the cabin. Trudging down the steps, his boots were heavy against the walkway, their weight equal to the lead of his grief. It'd been weeks, months, he couldn't remember, and the ache of losing Cas hadn't gotten any better. Just when he thought he'd gotten a handle on it, something would remind him of Cas. The flap of wings. A bird's down feather. Anything blue.

He'd grown to hate blue.

The careless toss and thump of the duffel inside the Impala trunk punctuated his anger. From its open flap fell out an old, worn bible. Its leather cover faded, its pages as delicate as rice paper. The very bible Cas had used to study, to find answers—to help them.

Everything reminded him of Cas.

He plucked the book from the trunk and held it in his hands. He turned it over, once, twice, just to feel the weight of it in his fingers. Imagining how it must have felt in Cas' hands. The coarse leather bumped beneath his thumb as he brushed it across the cover. As he flipped the pages, chasing Cas' scent, he could have sworn—

His phone sent out a shrill sound, scaring him the shit out of him. He tossed the bible into the duffel bag and zipped it, and pulled his phone from his pocket. Sam's name glared at him. He flipped the phone open and pressed it to his face.

"Yeah, Sammy."

"Dean!" Sam gasped into the phone. "You're not going to believe—"

"Hey, slow down." His heart jolted, a million thoughts running through his brain. "What's wrong? What's going on?"

But Sam didn't answer. On the other end, a different voice replaced the younger tones of his brother. Rough as sandpaper, worn down by years of drinking whiskey. He knew that voice. Knew it like the back of his hand. "Hey, boy."

"Bobby?"

He choked back his surprise.

:::

The three of them sat in the living room of Rufus' cabin, chugging back beer after beer. Dean stared at Bobby from across the small kitchen table, unable to keep the grin from his face. Bobby. Back from the dead. But how?

"—and I turned around and, there he was. I can't—I can't believe it." Sam said, recounting his trip to the store for supplies.

"Do you remember anything? How you got back?"

"Nope. Not a damn thing," Bobby said. "Just woke up in an old, beat-up Buick as if I'd taken one hell of a nap. It's the damnest thing." Bobby stared off, lost in thought. When he came to, he looked at Sam. "Hey, kid. How's your head?"

"It's been—it's been fine, actually. I haven't had a nightmare in—it's been months now. One day, I woke up. My head was clear and—yeah. Lucifer… he's just—_gone_."

"And Cas… he's…?"

Dean inhaled a deep breath and stood, grabbing the neck of another beer. To the question on their faces, he said, "Gonna get some air," and headed for the door and out, into the crisp winter night. The sudden updraft bit at his skin, the light dusting of snow scurrying around his boots in a puff of white. It'd gotten colder, darker, as the hole in his chest grew larger and larger. A hole left behind by Cas' death.

But even in his death, Cas had taken care of them. The answer was clear as day. The whole reason why Sam's head had been slowly pieced back together, why Bobby was upright and breathing. Somehow, someway, he knew it had been Cas' doing.

"You son of a bitch," Dean growled out with sudden anger. Not because of the things Cas had done for them. But because he was dead. Died before he could apologize for all the shit he had said to him. All the things he shouldn't have said in the fucking first place.

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face, twisted off the cap of his beer and nearly emptied it in one gulp. The pine trees watched him accusingly, the stars drilling holes into his skin. Quiet save for the rustling branches as another bite of wind chilled his bones to the point of freezing. If Cas was up there, somewhere in the stars…

He closed his eyes. Why he didn't know. But he felt like he needed to say something, anything. Talk to him. _Pray._ Like he had countless times before.

"Cas…"

His voice cracked over the name, like dirt that'd gone years without rain. He thought of hurling out a demand like he'd always done, but the words never came out. The same words rolled around in his head, echoing over and over…

_I need you._

The night mocked him with its silence. Exhaling through his nose, frowning, biting down his hurt and anger, he threw the bottle to the ground and spun on his heel. He was a fucking idiot to think—

"I'm here, Dean."

Dean whirled. There, standing with his hands in his trench coat pockets, was Cas. Whole. _Alive_. He let out a strangled breath and closed the distance between them in two exaggerated steps. Saying nothing, unable to talk even if he wanted to, he grabbed him and pulled him close, hugging him hard. Cas grunted and stood there, hands down at his sides. Gradually, the angel relaxed, lifting his arms, wrapping them around him and holding him tight. The hug could have lasted minutes, years, he couldn't tell.

"Dean—"

"You're okay," he whispered.

"Yes," Cas replied. "I'm fine."

Reluctantly, they broke apart, tethered together by a foot of invisible line.

"I—I couldn't stay there.." Cas said suddenly. ".. in Heaven. I—" Cas looked away, to the cabin and the glow of the light in the windows. "Sam and Bobby?"

"They're here," he whispered. "They're—they're okay."

Cas nodded, dropping his eyes to the ground. The silence between them—agonizing. "I'm no longer an angel, Dean," Cas said as if it were a confession. "God spoke to me, gave me a choice. I chose Heaven—"

A sting of hurt twisted his gut.

".. because the benefits—restoring Sam, returning your adoptive father to you—was simply too great to ignore." Their eyes met. "But I couldn't stay. The thought of spending an eternity without you..."

"Cas…"

"I chose you, Dean. Ultimately, I chose you over... _everything_."

The notion hit him like a thousand bolts of lightning. Heaven. His angel mojo. _Everything_. Overwhelmed that'd anyone would choose _him_, he stupidly fumbled, "Sam and Bobby? Is—Is God going to—"

"God is merciful. Although I didn't keep my end of the bargain, He kept His word. But not without a price." Cas looked up at the sky. Longing. Pain. Cas winced as if someone had struck him, as if he'd just realized his mistake. "And now I live out the rest of my days separated from Heaven, from my Father in this… human prison." He looked down at himself before his eyes found Dean again. "But I get to spend them with you."

Dean found himself speechless. For Cas to choose him over his family, to chain himself to painful, human existence… Dean drowned his guilt in the rush of soft lips, of a warm body suddenly too close. They kissed as the whisper of new-fallen snow settled on their shoulders; their arms entwined, their hips fused together. Dean licked the seal of Cas' lips, pushed his tongue inside, fervent and hot against Cas'. The noise he made, sweet and surprised, only encouraged him. Now that Cas was here, safe—_his_—he wouldn't let Heaven or Hell separate them.

Dean grabbed him by the collar of his trench coat, pulling him in closer, deepening the kiss, before pushing, pushing until their bodies jolted against the sudden bulk of the Impala. Cas moaned again and Dean drank it down, the whiskey-sweetness of it burning against his mouth. He could hardly breathe, so wrapped up in it, the intensity of their kiss, that when Cas pulled back, he had to gasp for air.

"Dean," Cas whispered. "I remember everything—"

"You talk too much."

He pulled Cas close again and kissed him hard. Cas' hands dove into the warmth of his jacket, tracing timid lines up his sides, around his waist to nestle at the small of his back. Cas' mannerisms—almost shy, unsure—went ignored; the _now, now, now_ of his dick an imposing force against his thigh. Impatient. Needy. Selfish. Dean fumbled blind for the Impala's door; his mouth memorizing and savoring while his fingers ineffectively clawed at the sleek handle. He yanked Cas forward, hooked the door and flung it open—the thought of breaking their kiss unbearable.

They dipped down. Cas bumped his head against doorframe, mumbled apologies lost between their mouths. The awkwardness of the Impala's tight backseat didn't stop them. They fumbled to remove their clothing, hit their heads against the roof and the door to the beat of _I want you. I need you._

_I love you._

Naked, skin-to-skin, their cocks hard between them, their desperation turned soft and gentle like the snowfall outside; a quiet exploration of each other's bodies, finally free from moral constraints. Cas remembered everything. Cas was him; _his Cas_, and the realization of it—that he was okay, _alive_, that he'd chosen _him_—simply took his breath away. In that moment of stillness, of his fingers brushing along Cas' cheek, Dean studied him, truly looked at him, in the first time since…

Sweat beaded Cas' brow, his skin flush with a fine sheet of perspiration. Arousal, fear, _something_, blew his eyes wide to black, his breath laborious in his chest. Dean kissed him gently on the lips as Cas wrapped his arms around him; a soft embrace at first, impatient tugging the next. The rigidity in Cas' body, his steel-cable muscles taut and unforgiving suggested nervousness; his touch almost cold, mechanical, as if he were following an instructional manual on sex or struggling to remember finer points of a porno.

Cas lifted his legs, spreading himself wide for him, tugging at him at the same time. When Dean stiffened, refused to bury himself balls deep, Cas groaned out impatiently. "Dean.."

"Cas, stop." He brushed the backs of his fingers against his cheek, kissing him on the lips. "There's no rush. We have the rest of our lives ahead of us."

Their eyes locked. Dean stroked a thumb along his jaw line, nodding, letting him know that he meant it. That he didn't plan on going anywhere; neither of them were. That he'd wait forever for this if he had to; that whatever he was going through—his struggle with his first steps into full-fledged humanity, his doubts or hesitations, whatever it was—was okay.

Cas took a deep breath and let it out forcibly, the tension slipping away with it. They kissed again, slower, and held each other, the gentle rocking of their bodies creating heated friction. Cas arched his head back and gasped when Dean angled his hips down hard, their dicks rubbing together from base to tip. Again and again. Cas' blunt nails scrabbled down the curve of his back, every moan deeper. Losing control. Dean enclosed a fist around their cocks, thrusting his hips, their sweat and precome aiding the slip-and-slide. Cas groaned louder, calling out with each thrust, throwing his hands up above him. While Cas pressed himself down and away from the door, Dean pulled himself up, using whatever leverage he could find—their efforts intensifying the impact of their rubbing, cocks wet with their excitement.

Dean lost himself among the groans and desperation, in the sweltering heat inside that car. His orgasm started low, promised to take him quick if he didn't stop this; if he didn't stop the grinding, didn't stop their wet cocks from sliding together. Gritting his teeth, Dean stopped, steeling his hips. Stopped himself from going too far, just like he had many times before. And just like before, Cas groaned out his frustration and urged him on.

This time, he'd fuck Cas until his soul hurt.

Dean reached down and under, grabbing the backs of Cas' legs, raising them up to rest on his shoulders; to give him as much free reign over Cas as he wanted. Splayed wide like this, Cas moaned, tilting his chin up, exposing the length of his throat. In submission. In _yes_. His heart jackhammered in his chest as he spat on his hand, jerked his dick once, twice, before lining himself up. With a ragged, hungry breath, Dean speared him, shoving himself balls deep inside. Cas yelped, his face tightening and twisting with pain. In his eagerness, he'd forgotten to be gentle; forgot that this was Cas' first time.

"Fuck—Cas. I'm sor…"

"You talk too much," Cas grated out between clenched teeth. "Please. I need you to—"

Cas emphasized his need, pulling at him, the force of it driving him deeper. His intentions had been pure; to go slow after the initial thrust, to make this experience pleasurable for Cas. But when Cas spread his legs wider, offering his ass up for sacrifice or punishment—nobility abandoned him.

Dean fucked Cas to the rhythm of his groans; filthy and deep, sinful noises no angel had the right to make. He fucked him as a means of apology, each gasp and whimper filling the deep hole of his guilt. His dick slid in and out of his ass easily, effortlessly, as if they'd been doing this all their lives; as if they were _meant_ to be together. So perfectly fitted that it was a wonder if God hadn't created him just for Cas alone.

The intimacy of the thought drove Dean to lean forward as much as he could, to purely seek out affection. Cas' legs bowed with the effort, nearly folded, knees-to-chest. Their lips found each other among tangled limbs, as Dean's hips did all the work, pounding into him until Cas' throat ran hoarse. Groans sung like little prayers as they sinned.

He rode that hymnal, those breathless whimpers, until his orgasm overtook him with a powerful jolt. His body cried out with it, every inch of his skin on fire as a rush of exhilaration punched a moan out of his chest. He spilled out over Cas' stomach hot and plentiful; the mess forgotten in the afterglow and the beauty of what he heard next.

The sound of Cas' groan as he climaxed; dark and gravel-rough, raw and free of inhibition. The breaking of volcanic glass; a rumble of thunder before the storm. Cas gripped him tight, unrelenting, as it shook him to his core, as his chest heaved with the intensity of it. Dean held him in his arms as Cas shuddered through his first orgasm, as his legs fell away and his muscles turned to liquid. He kissed his cheekbone, the corner of his lips, as Cas huffed air against his ear, through his hair; their hearts beating as one.

They spent what seemed like hours laying against each other; Dean listening to the _thump, thump_ of Cas' human heart. It rattled with a quiet sadness, a longing of home, a trepidation of what might come. Dean slid gentle fingers down his side, soothing him with a chaste kiss on the underside of his jaw. In the purity of that moment, he made a promise; Cas wouldn't know what it was like to suffer.

He'd keep to that promise for the rest of their lives.


End file.
